Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd
by MrsVonTrapp
Summary: A close-to-canon short story that imagines what happened between the pages - and during the summer - at the end of 'Anne of the Island', taking place from the time of Gilbert's near-death and recovery to his second proposal to Anne... and perhaps a little beyond! It begins at 'A Book of Revelation' and will feature the perspectives of both Anne and Gilbert.
1. Chapter 1 Drowning

**Author's Note:**

Hello lovely Anne-girls

On Monday 10th September I celebrate a year on the site. I have written very many words and two stories yet to end. I did not anticipate the journey to completion would be quite this long!

Thinking of appropriate homage to all the wonderful writers here and as thanks to all you fabulous readers and reviewers, do I give you an overdue chapter of either ongoing story? Of course not (though they are on their way). Instead, I cannot shake my image of canon Anne and her night-vigil; that Book of Revelation she opens and cannot put back down. This was to be a one-shot but has expanded to five or six short chapters (and I say s _hort_ in the face of your disbelieving bemusement) and I intend to publish all in this coming fortnight (see aforementioned disbelief, etc).

This idea is not new; it is the oft-tramped path in the time between the last chapters of _Anne of the Island,_ encompassing 'A Book of Revelation' and 'Love Takes Up the Glass of Time' and the world (and summer) inbetween. I intend to fly close to canon but there will be obvious deviations and gap-filling which I hope will still feel authentic. I have not read any accounts of this general timeframe barring _Catiegirl's_ wonderful and wrenching _'The Path Not Taken',_ and apologise if I have inadvertently stepped on any toes from other stories before.

As ever, with grateful thanks to Lucy Maud Montgomery, who brought me here, and to this community of kindred spirits; your encouragement and friendship sustain me more than you can know.

With love,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

' _ **Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd'**_

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Drowning**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne Shirley was rather used to making unequal bargains with God, but in the wind-lashed night of her bitterest revelation, she begged of Him things unholy and untold but to her secret self. _Dear Lord… I ask of nothing but that you save Gilbert, and if you cannot save him, that you take me alongside him. For I will not… cannot… remain on this earth without him._

God had evidently been displeased with her audacity, or else did not much care for the offer of her own soul, for the rain _beat down over the shivering fields_ in unimpressed answer. The Haunted Wood, once hallowed haven, was now _full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore._ * Anne paced, stockinged feet freezing against the floorboards, thinking of a lone, rogue apple tree beyond the marsh, and whether having survived all else it would survive _this_. Would God take the tree but not Gilbert? Or was the explorer forever bound to his discovery?

She murmured this as she murmured other things she would barely remember; an unending incantation of pleas for the present interspersed with agonised apologies for the past, and all too late. _Too late_ to forgive him his long-ago schoolboy taunt and his trespass, even if _the iron had entered into (her) soul._ ** _Too late_ to thank him properly for fishing her out of the pond; an unlikely Lancelot. _Too late_ to accept a dance with him, though she wore his lilies at her waist and had begun the evening with his pink heart by her breast. And much, much _too late_ to take back words so painful and untrue _…_ _I never, never can love you - in that way - Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again._ ***

 _I love you I love you I love you…_ she whispered now, dropping to her knees before the candle in the window, the steady flame of which became her constant; the light of her life, as Gilbert was. She repeated the vow until she was hoarse, fervently wishing her words would reach him in his fever. If she called out his name as Rochester had Jane, would he hear her? Beyond the reach of time and space and even sense, she repeated his name now; a mournful mantra to her missed hopes. _Gilbert…_ all began and ended with him; her very own _Genesis._ In the new-despair that plunged to depths she had never dared reckon on, frightening and fathomless, she clasped his name to her and clasped her hands to her heart and prayed he would not _go away from this life thinking that she did not care._ *

 _The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent,_ * as was she. _Anne saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim._ * She didn't know if she dared greet the new day and the news it might bring with it. Here, in this little east gable room, she could safeguard herself against _the black years of emptiness_ * with the cold comfort of denial and delay. _The clouds rolled themselves away into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and silvery._ * She stared out in disbelief that the world could be washed new full of such beauty and promise; such an unexpected gift, fearing for what – or whom – had been taken instead in the exchange.

 _Anne rose from her knees,_ welcoming the sharp protest of aching joints, relaced her boots with unfeeling fingers _and crept downstairs. The freshness of the rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and cooled her dry, burning eyes._ * Later she would remember there had been a brief conversation; a _merry rollicking whistle_ and a desperate question, and an assurance from an unlikely source that seized her heart in its grip, and felt the sharp, jagged joy pierce her. Though she would properly recall little except those two words; _He's better._ *

She knew she stood under the willows; she knew she saw new-blown roses; she knew she heard birds trilling. She might have even realised that she set off, through the woods and beyond the marsh, and in the circle of early morning sunlight there stood an apple tree, stripped bare of any lingering blossoms, but still existing; proud and strong and safe.

As was _he._

Anne found herself at Blythe farm, and at a door she had dared not darken of late with her unappreciated presence. Mr Blythe had always greeted her in the village with a soft smile and a kind word, even past the point where she might have deserved them, but Mrs Blythe had these two years regarded her with the reproachful eyes and thin lips of the mother whose beloved boy had been wronged, and whose heart would always carry the anguish and accusation of his betrayal.

It mattered not. He was alive, and God had upheld his end of the bargain, and it was her turn to repay with relief and remorse and recompense.

Mrs Blythe opened the door; her attractive face pale and drawn, her hair straggling from her haphazard bun in unnoticed escape, and only her eyes lit with a new hope that fought the deep shadows etched beneath them.

The two women stared at one another, the haunted, dishevelled appearance of each an ironic echo; in mirthless mimic of the night's shared purgatory.

"Anne Shirley?" Mrs Blythe croaked.

"M…Mrs Blythe…" the name trembled on her lips, and Anne felt herself swaying in turn. "Is… is he…?"

Dark brows drew upwards in their own question, and then lowered in grim understanding.

"He's been spared, praise God."

Anne felt the sway drift into shake, to shudder, to sag… to be told, beyond any doubt, that it was true.

"I'm sorry…" she breathed raggedly. "I… d… didn't know…"

Whether she meant to explain _I didn't know that he was sick…_ or _I didn't know that I loved him…_ she could not say, and they were interchangeable understandings anyway. From this moment forth there would be no distinction for her between them, and she would wear her wretchedness willingly, as penitence for her pride and her purposeful willingness to overlook _what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert_ \- _to think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And now she must pay for her folly as for a crime._ *

Behind the resolute figure of his wife came Mr Blythe, tiredness and worry still stooping his shoulders, but eyes lighting with the curiosity she had so often noted in his son's.

"Why Anne…" he greeted, and if puzzled by her unscheduled, inappropriate early hour call he was too polite – and still too weary – to note it. "Did you come for news of Gil?"

Her courage and her composure began to fail her, and she could do nothing but offer the cutting she had taken, breaking off the deep-green summer foliage as carefully as any medical student undertaking their first incision.

"It… it's from… his apple tree," she rasped, not daring to think, let alone substitute, the use of pronoun… _his_ for _ours._

"Gilbert is only just out of danger. He is a long way off receiving any visitors," Mrs Blythe made indignant reply, her exhaustion sidelined to her righteous anger, though it wavered as her eyes followed her husband's broad hand as it reached out and accepted her gift, her talisman, her apology… and perhaps her goodbye.

"Thank you," John Blythe added apologetically. "We'll put it by his bedside. It will be sure to cheer him when he wakes."

Anne nodded, beyond further words, and turned for the long trek back to Green Gables, where an increasingly frantic Marilla helped her inside and upstairs, holding her as the sobs convulsed her slight frame, till she allowed herself to be cajoled into bed, cradled in her work-worn arms and crooned into dreamless sleep.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

My story title is from Tennyson's _'In Memoriam: AHH'_ (1849)written of course for his great friend from Cambridge days, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly of cerebral haemorrhage in 1833.

And we remember, always, this is the cruel, swift stroke that took Jonathan Crombie from us in 2015.

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 40)

** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 15)

*** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 20)


	2. Chapter 2 Waking

**Author's Note:**

Surprise! Didn't think I meant it, did you?!

Thank you to all your lovely reads and responses to this so far.

They have made my little fanfic anniversary very special.

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **Waking**

* * *

 ** _Gilbert_**

* * *

At first it was the smell that disorientated him; of sick-bed and sweat, camphor and carbolic acid, overlayed by the sweet, desperate disguise of rose. Embalmed in the sheets which stuck to him as slick cocoon, Gilbert Blythe felt the fog of confusion slowly clear to clarity, and for the one awful, infinitesimal moment, he almost wished again for delirium.

He had no more idea of day or time or even season than a new-birthed babe, and was likewise as weak and as helpless. The light stretched behind the curtains in either dawn greeting or sunset farewell, but he had lost the ability to distinguish between them, and perhaps the will to care.

"Darling…" crooned a gentle voice at his ear, and cool hands met his forehead in concern and caress. "Oh, darling, we thought we'd lost you…"

"Ma?" he rasped, turning his head, struggling to focus on the figure before his glazed eyes, even as the dim light flared and she blazed briefly, cruelly, with tresses of fire, before they settled and reformed into the black smoke of his mother's familiar hue.

"Oh, _Gilbert_ …" the voice and hand shook in tandem, and he read the worry and grief still hovering just beneath the surface.

"I… I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry _for_ , son," his father's deep, modulated tones calmed and soothed he and his mother both, and John Blythe moved to stand beside his wife, framed within Gilbert's narrow field of vision; a tableau of parental love and support on which he'd depended all his life. "We are so very happy to see you out the other side of this. You… you fought so bravely, Gil."

He tried not to hear the way his father's voice broke on his name, or the way his ordeal had aged them so swiftly and shockingly. Once he had vowed he would dedicate his life to the fight against the Great Destroyer, not ever anticipating _he_ would be one of its targets. If he was truly through this… if the living white-heat nightmare of the past however many days or weeks was properly over… well, the fight against it was all he had now. He would have to double down his efforts in all respects, starting with his parents… but first, he had to keep his eyes open.

"Dad. I… I…"

"Rest now, love…" his mother pleaded. "Drink, and rest…"

He was assisted in a sip of water; a trickle of relief upon a parched wasteland. But he did not have the energy for anything more, and his eyelids fluttered closed the moment his head met the pillow.

* * *

Darkness now, but for the lamp casting shadows flitting like malevolent spirits along the far wall. He might have been diverted by their dance if other more immediate concerns did not press upon him. He ached _all over._ His larynx felt as if it had been ripped out and hastily shoved back down his trachea. He had some sort of fading red, spotty rash scattered across his torso, barely discernible, when he could raise his thundering head enough to examine it. His long, leaden fingers poked around his worryingly distended stomach, though it could contain nothing but his own bloodied membranes. He was weak and sweat-stained and he _smelt._

He tried to pull himself to something approaching sitting, but grunted so in the effort he awoke his dozing father attempting a moment's respite in the nearby chair.

"Son… _easy_! Easy does it…" John urged, arm around the shrunken figure of his beautiful boy, grown so gaunt and pallid, his broad frame having no flesh to support it, body hanging limply off his bones as if an overlarge coat dangling off a hanger.

Gilbert's head reeled from the rush of altered gravity, and his noisy breaths showed the strain of even this small physical action.

"I feel… _pummelled,_ " he gritted his teeth, only barely loosening his jaw to accept more water, which he tried not to gulp. "And I smell like…something one of… the cats… dug up."

John gave him a genuine smile that strove to reach his tired eyes, though his manner soon became meditative. "I'm sorry, Gil. I know you must feel wretched. But these past two days… they were the worst of all. We couldn't risk even giving you a sponge bath." He rubbed Gilbert's sweaty back with a touching gentleness. "Doc Spencer will be here soon, and he will be able to give the final word on whether we can make you decent again."

"Well, at least I haven't had to worry about r-receiving… _company,"_ he joked grimly.

"Er, no. Not exactly…" his father hedged, saved from Gilbert's questioning look by the fortuitous arrival of the good doctor, trailed by Mrs Blythe.

"Well now, Gilbert, and aren't you a welcome sight!" Dr Spencer greeted warmly, a studied relief in his assessing glance. "You've given your parents quite the worry these past weeks."

"Weeks?" Gilbert echoed weakly.

"Nearly four, all told," Dr Spencer confirmed, meeting his knowledgeable patient's eye. "The full breadth and scope of symptoms I'm afraid, though mercifully clear of the most extreme complications." He allowed a beat of time for this realisation to sink in, and Gilbert's brows drew together in almost pained concentration, trying to remember all he had read on the progression of typhoid - trying to remember anything he had ever studied at all - through the haze and fog of his muddled mind. He remembered coming home, deservedly exultant over the Cooper and his final results, but being so very worn and tired and lethargic…

"No… _complications?_ " he whispered.

"None," Dr Spencer gave a reassuring smile and a resolute shake of the head. "Luck has most certainly been on your side." His firm hand felt forehead, back and chest, and Gilbert's parents withdrew respectfully whilst the examination was completed, returning with hopeful expressions that transformed to an ecstatic outpouring of happiness when Gilbert was pronounced most definitely out of danger, and able to attempt some thin, watery soup… and a sponge bath.

His mother ushered out their most welcome visitor, waylaying him downstairs to go through his explicit instructions for when to slowly reintroduce solid foods and some careful attempts at exercise, and ensuring he departed with a hearty supply of preserves.

Back upstairs in the room that had been both hospital and prison, Gilbert and his father conducted a conversation that was only marginally less awkward than the sponge bath that accompanied it. Gilbert was already fading, particularly having to be moved as John clumsily navigated the changing of sheets, but was stubbornly questioning of his conduct whilst in the full grip of the horrors of his fever.

"Dad… did I say anything disturbing or terrible? I can't remember much of anything."

"Gil, son, you were delirious. Whatever you said or didn't say, there's no way you could be held accountable for that."

Gilbert expelled a pained breath. "So I _did_ ramble on then…"

John had fetched fresh pyjamas, and now threaded arms and legs through them, straining to manage Gilbert's dead weight. "You didn't so much _ramble_ as _argue…"_ his father chuckled appreciatively. "Mostly with _yourself._ It's quite the gift."

Gilbert gave a halfhearted groan, without the energy to put much force behind it. "Now I just sound like an _idiot._ "

"Yes, indeed. The Cooper Prize recipient is _quite_ the idiot," his father shook his head amusedly, not knowing how he could ever properly express his admiration for his brilliant, broken boy. "And it wasn't just with yourself. You often sparred with – " John, seemingly on the cusp of some revelation, halted suspiciously, and changed direction inexpertly. "Well, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd taken on Aunt Mary Maria herself."

Gilbert would not be sidetracked, and as his father refastened the buttons of his pyjama top his glittering hazel eyes were large in his face as he searched his father's.

" _Her,"_ he choked out. "You can say it, Dad. I argued with _her."_

He didn't know why he was surprised. He had argued and debated with her all his life; why would she not be the adversary of his delirium too? He didn't much recall his words, of how his indignation had ran the gamut from vague mutterings mumbled under his breath, to carefully calibrated arguments, shouted with sudden and alarming alacrity. But he remembered the feeling, of escalating anxiety and a desperate thrashing about, as if he struggled with a fierce invisible foe, even as his body fought a bitter battle with itself. Here mutter and shout would give way to agonised gasp; a drowning man reaching for his last breath, and at this point he could not know that his mother would have to flee the room to keep company with her fulsome flood of tears, and only his father's calm, unwavering assurance, as he who knew what it was to gasp and strain for air, could steady and settle him.

"What did I _say,_ Dad?" he felt his voice waver horribly, struggling to swallow down the bitter bile that rose in his throat. _Oh, God_ … he had tried to protect them from the worst of his suffering, not knowing that it might inadvertently escape him through all _this._ He turned pleading eyes back to his father. "What did I _say_?"

"Gilbert…" his father's expression had turned grim, and he looked down at the long fingers, claw-like now as they clutched his sleeve, in agonised indecision.

" _Dad…"_ he urged.

John straightened up the fresh bedclothes around him, flicking a sorrowful glance at the pale, resolute face.

"Nothing, son. You said nothing we didn't know already, or… _suspected,_ anyway," he admitted reluctantly.

 _Oh, God… so it was as bad as THAT…_ Gilbert felt he might be sick, if he had anything in him to vomit up as it was. His body still retched convulsively in sympathy, though, and his father hushed him, soothing him as he did the animals when they were frightened or skittish, and then urged him to some more water.

Gilbert sat back against the pillows propped behind him, exhausted. It was such a terrible irony. _Must_ she follow him _everywhere_ , even to his sickbed? Did he have to continue to be tortured, even on the edge of consciousness?

 _She didn't care… she didn't care… she didn't care…_

What on earth was the _point_ of any of it?

He writhed internally in new guilt, because he was vaguely aware he must have, in the endless hours, begged for death. He suspected it at any case, with an inevitable certainty. That would have destroyed his parents, certainly, and he was sorry for the selfish succumb, though he was darkly diverted by the thought as to whether _she_ would have appeared at his wake, weeping and white-faced, beautifully tragic with her titian hair in stark contrast to her black mourning…

 _Argh…_ he groaned, turning his face away and into the pillow. _Don't DO this to yourself! She didn't care, and she was with Gardner anyway, undoubtedly sporting some obscenely large ring and swanning about Kingsport._

It _hurt,_ though, that she didn't care as a _friend._ Through all their years together, he had thought that might have counted for _something._ Here he was, back from the brink of death, and she couldn't even send word to him. Or maybe she was waiting until it was all over, so she didn't double up on her correspondence… _Dear Mr and Mrs Blythe, I am very sorry for your loss…_

"Gil…" his father was saying, hand on his shoulder, calling him back to them. "Gil, we need to tell you that – "

The confession was lost in the shuffle of his mother returning, proudly bearing a tray holding a bowl of brown water, which might have substituted for soup, and a stack of envelopes.

"Oh, darling!" she exclaimed, bypassing notice of the grimace on his face and his glittering eyes. "There have been constant callers for the last hour! That was Fred just now, who looks about as tired as _you_ do, love, and Mrs Harmon, who seems to have bowled over Dr Spencer in her haste to get here, and the Reverend, who has come to pray with us every evening, and he didn't even _know_ that…" she flicked a glance at the two suspiciously quiet men in and by the bed, and her excitable monologue petered out, deflating along with her posture, which crumpled in on itself as she set the tray on the bedside table with a loud clink.

"I'm sorry…" she shuddered now, struggling for words where a moment ago they had gushed from her in giddy relief. "I'm sorry, love… the doctor warned me not to overwhelm you and I… it's just that we've waited so _long_ to be able to say that you…" she broke off, covered her face in her hands, and began to sob.

"Ma!" Gilbert gasped, horrified, forgetting his own pain in the raw, naked display of his mother's before him. "Oh, Ma…"

John Blythe was up in an instant, wrapping his arms around her, transferring his comfort from one Blythe to another. "There, there, Ella, love, it's alright… it's alright, now…"

Gilbert, prostate in the bed, dashed at his own tear with a heavy, tired hand. He felt frayed as an old carpet and just as worn, useless to know how to comfort she who had been through so much on his behalf.

Turning his eyes away, his gaze fell to the tray. He recoiled from the smell - and indeed the very _thought_ – of digesting anything, but he could force down a few mouthfuls. _This,_ at least, he could do for her.

"Mind that doesn't get cold now, Ma…" he offered gamely as Ella Blythe dried her tears on her husband's hankerchief, and she gave him a grateful, watery smile, mirrored in that of his father's behind her, who added a nod of knowing of his own.

His mother fussed now with napkin, moving the tray and a card aside, and a vase of roses too, revealing another vase of botanical offering; a sprig of summer green, with nothing but leaves and dusky buds and not much else to recommend it. Gilbert stared at it curiously, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

"Dad? You wanted to bring some of the orchard inside for me?" he tried to joke, indicating to the bedside table with an incline of his head, and might have forgotten about the unusual offering entirely, if not for the revealing reaction of both his parents to his words.

John Blythe looked to his wife, who gave an agonised look to him in return, not unnoticed by their son staring up at the both of them.

"Gil…" John Blythe seemed to have made some sort of decision, though his mother still opened her mouth as in protest before closing it again. "Your fever broke very early this morning. There was only us and Doctor Spencer here, though, er, Pacifique Buote has been helping out with some of the chores, and he was here in case we… we… had to send word to the Fletchers."

The silence hung heavy, the evening glow of the lamp in the darkened room illuminating the new lines on his father's still-handsome face. Gilbert didn't want to think of what message may have been sent in different circumstances, and his throat worked against the dread realisation.

"Later… we had a visitor… that is, they just wanted to enquire of you, and to leave – "

"Can I see that?" Gilbert interrupted on a harsh note, reaching out to the table.

"Gilbert…" his mother sniffed, warningly.

"Here, son," his father held out the little vase, which he had to cradle with both hands, his diminished strength hardly equal to the task.

"Your soup really _will_ grow cold…" his mother offered in ineffectual protest, which he had to ignore.

Gilbert stared with blistering eyes at the offering, leaning in to trace the faint scent with his nose, which was wilder and rangier than that of any cultivated orchard around these parts, with a tang that he could never properly describe. He could hardly fathom what it would be doing here, this little branch by his sick bed that could have been his death bed; this little hint of times past, this echo of other years, when before their college journey started he had taken a girl on another journey. To a tree through the woods by her home, beyond the marsh… to a tree that he was fairly sure only two people on this earth knew about, or would even care to.

 _To care… to care… to care…_

"I don't understand…" he gritted, hands shaking so badly his mother swiftly rescued the vase before it was upended all over him and the fresh launderings of the newly made bed. "Who _brought_ this?"

His wild eyes found his father's, staring with an intensity that was more than a little fevered, and would have caused a lesser mortal to stagger back in shock. The answer came in that calm tone on the edge of pain and apology, though Gilbert had no need of answer now, and was beyond the possibility of explanation.

"Anne."


	3. Chapter 3 Doubting

_Thank you all so very much for your gorgeous, generous reads, follows and reviews._

 _For extra kind readers of my other stories, there is movement on those fronts too I promise!_

 _This is for everyone who has always wished Anne had lingered a little longer on her moment of revelation..._

 _… and for_ _ **oz diva**_ _, who gave us her magnificent Marilla x_

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **Doubting**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Every time Anne closed her eyes, she saw only _his._

Curious, humorous, mischievous, hopeful, loving… disappointed, furious, hurt, cold, empty…

She would peer anxiously in the glass to make sure she wasn't a dream; that she was actually here and that she existed, when she seemed so little and unworthy and insubstantial, as Phil had once written to her of her feelings upon meeting Jonas. Anne felt untethered; adrift. She had not realised how _he_ had been her mainstay; both buoy and anchor. She had not understood through all the years how she had gamely fought the current, priding herself on navigating those treacherous waters alone, only to turn and look for his light the moment she ever neared the rocks…

 _Forgive these wild and wandering cries,_

 _Confusions of a wasted youth;_

 _Forgive them where they fail in truth,_

 _And in thy wisdom make me wise._ *

He _lived_ , by some miraculous intervention; God, or Providence, or by marvellous virtue of _the Blythe constitution in his favour._ ** To whatever spiritual or mystical means she owed his life, she was grateful, so very grateful, and that must be enough.

 _It wasn't enough._

He would recover; he would marry Christine. Or, in the unlikely event it wasn't Christine, then someone else. Someone who deserved his blistering intellect, and his brave ambition, and his easy charm, and his generous humour, and his touching attentiveness, and his earnest, unfussy romanticism. Someone for whom he would compose a sonnet in dedication to their eyebrows, raising his own in jest as he recited it drolly, with that knowing quirk to his lips and sparkle in his _roguish hazel eyes._ She had always decried him as a possible suitor – to Diana, to Marilla, to herself – holding fast to her melancholy, dark-eyed, inscrutable ideal. She saw that now for what it was; the stubborn adherence to the safe dreams of girlhood, not acknowledging that true love came in a thousand little acts of kindness, more probably as _an old friend through quiet ways,_ and not as a _gay knight riding down._ *** He had gifted her these multitude kindnesses at every turn, even, as with the Avonlea school, at considerable inconvenience and expense to himself, and even when she had done so little to deserve them.

 _If she had not been so blind – so foolish – she would have the right to go to him now._ ** Someone whose right it was to sit by his bedside; to mop his brow; to stroke his wayward curls; to read to him his favourite novel; to debate all from Darwin to Dickens; to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, with the promise of more when he was well. She had spurned his advances ever since she was eleven and he still thirteen; how many more times was he expected to forgive her such folly? How many more times was he expected to subjugate himself to her juvenile whims?

… _Till this moment I never knew myself…_ she sighed alongside Lizzy Bennet, and so too her own _sense of shame was severe._ ****

Days passed to her fevered writings and her meandering walks and her obsessional baking. She would rise with the dawn to concoct a fresh batch of contrition, ready to deposit, surreptitiously, at his door. Marilla would soon protest they were running out of baskets, but she could not think of anything else she could do for him, unseen and from afar. She would not in any way attempt to gain admittance to see him, even when it reached the point when visitors could be admitted. For she knew with the dread-knowledge of those reproachful eyes and that _frosty bow_ that Mrs Blythe, once so _merry_ and _young-hearted_ ***** towards her, would not welcome her willingly, and she could not find fault in her doubtless-ready reasonings, for they were her own... Anne had broken his heart, repeatedly and without care. She had driven him to the brink of exhaustion, all-too ready for the waiting arms of illness. She had been cold and cavalier in her friendship with him, using Christine as a bargaining tool _; you want all of her, so you shall have none of me…_ Not even a dance, that one dance at the Convocation Ball, though she had earlier chosen his lilies over Roy's violets, in unfairness to both men. And she remembered the _flash_ of his eyes at _this,_ too…

Anne prepared with heavy heart, now; had her basket packed and was at the door when a determined tread was heard on the stairs; she looked up, startled, to see Marilla coming down, dressed for visiting and with a frightening look of determination on her face as was rarely seen outside of some to-do concerning Davy.

"Marilla!" Anne gulped, edging the basket behind her and trying to manoeuvre her lighter coat across her shoulders at the same time. "I hope I didn't wake you!"

"Not any more than the other four times this week, Anne," came severe reply, which softened as she came closer to her beloved, bewildering girl.

"I was just… going for a walk. I'll be back before long."

Marilla swept over to the bench, where Anne's decoy tray of plum puffs for her own household were sitting in reproach. "Perhaps you could have the Blythes make requests," she offered mildly, "so that I can better plan my orders at the store."

Anne reddened shamefacedly. "Marilla, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go behind your back. I only…"

"Anne, it is not proper to be in Gilbert's company under these circumstances without my knowledge, or Rachel's for that matter. We all praise God that he is recovering, but you still have your reputation to consider."

Anne, appalled, opened and closed her mouth ineffectually. "Marilla, I… I don't go _inside!_ And I certainly haven't… seen… _him_."

Marilla Cuthbert puffed her chest in indignation, a rare, disconcerting and unconscious echo of Mrs Lynde. "You mean to tell me Ella Blythe has you cooling your heels on the porch steps after you have baked for hours?"

"I… I…" Anne stammered, reddening. "I wouldn't know her want. I don't knock. I just leave the basket and go."

There was a beat of astonished silence whilst Marilla considered this.

"Sit down, Anne," she directed firmly but not unkindly. "We'll breakfast first. I am not about to call on the Blythes on an empty stomach."

Anne's face swiftly morphed from red to green. "Marilla, I can't _call_ on them! I… I… turned up at their door the other morning, half-wild and babbling, and I… I… I can't face them again!"

She felt herself slumping against the door, dangerously close to tears.

"Anne, love, Gilbert would be _more_ than happy to see you. _Especially_ now."

She shook her head miserably, and her response was barely above a whisper. "No… he hates me. And he has every reason to."

"Anne, you refused him _years_ ago… he has been friends with you since, hasn't he? He took it with good grace?"

She felt herself quailing, and the basket dropped to the floor, though luckily its contents remained undamaged. "How did… how did… you know? I didn't tell anyone. No one knew… save for Phil…" a _nd possibly everyone in Patty's Place…and Miss Lavendar, and most likely Gilbert's parents… "_ And later… Diana."

Marilla gave her a pitying look, crossing over to take her lovely face in her creased hands, catching the tears as they came.

"You think I wouldn't know how low you were, after, and wonder why you would never speak of him, or why he wouldn't write or call?" Marilla asked gently.

"I… I… I'm sorry. I should have told you!" Anne sobbed. "I was just afraid you'd be… _disappointed_ in me. Gilbert was and Phil was and Diana was and Mrs Blythe was… I couldn't bear for _you_ to be, too."

Marilla took out a hankerchief to mop Anne's now worryingly pale face.

"I _was_ disappointed at first… _grievously disappointed,"_ ***** Marilla ventured with a sad, wry smile. "But that was to do with _myself,_ Anne, as much as it was for you. I shouldn't have ever expected you to right _my_ past wrongs."

Anne composed herself with difficulty, mopping blindly at her tears.

"And how do I right my _own?"_ she asked bitterly.

"We go after breakfast, _together,_ to be received properly. You begin again. You ask to be his friend, as he always wanted to be yours."

Those grave, grey eyes widened. "And if… he is to marry Christine?"

"I don't know this girl you speak of, Anne. Where _is_ she in all this? I don't hear of her sitting all hours by his bedside. But, regardless… do you really want a future in which Gilbert has no part in it at all?"

The words echoed what Phil had said to her after that awful time in the orchard of Patty's Place… and how she had mused of _a_ _world without any Gilbert in it_ being such a _lonely, forlorn place…_ She knew what that world looked like, now. She not only _felt_ but _knew_ that _something incalculably precious had gone out of her life_ ****** that day. She would do anything to get it back.

Anne shook her head slowly, and allowed herself to be led to the table, plied with fortifying tea and a nibbled plum puff, and then as Rachel Lynde came to see them depart, she had that lady's approving smile to bolster her all the way to the Blythes'.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

He woke every morning with the remembrance of her eyes, and how their chameleon-like changeability heralded her mood. He tried to recall when those eyes had truly sparked with the passion and zest she was so known for, even when directed in anger or frustration or exasperation at _him,_ and found it was years since he had last properly seen that look, and he did not want to ponder what part _he_ had played in affecting that change.

Instead, he pondered an apple tree and plum puffs.

She had always been an alluring enigma, and this used to fantastically entice him. He would lie awake at night, once he had won the hard-earned favour of her friendship, attempting to decode her moods and decipher her motivations. Now he found it an exercise in frustration. Illness had stripped away his appetite for artifice. He was a Man of Science at heart, soon to become a student of medicine, and he just wanted some plain answers to plain questions.

Such as why the fiancée of one man was secretly baking for another.

Such as why she would wear his flowers and yet refuse him a dance.

Such as why, as he lay fighting for life (or cheating death, depending on the darkness of his current perspective) she was roaming the woods like that veritable dryad of old and offering up a sprig of their apple tree to his bewildered parents.

What did any of it _mean?_

He received cards and letters by the day, from Kingsport to New Brunswick, wishing him well, delighted in his ongoing recovery, but not a murmur from _her_ – she who spent her _life_ fashioning epistles and savouring words - not a note or a line or a verse. He had often dreamed what it would be like to receive a proper letter from Anne Shirley; a love letter that might have to be sequestered away, only perused in private – and there had been some very low points when he had longed to think he might receive one from the future Anne _Blythe –_ but now those dreams had turned to dust. His long-cherished hopes lay as abandoned apples on the ground, rotting, dissolving back into the earth. As _he_ had nearly done.

Gilbert sighed deeply and hauled his battered body out of bed. He was slowly regaining his strength, if not his looks – still frowningly pale and skeletal – but at least he was able to dress and wash himself now, with time and not a little effort. He was taking turns about the room and up and down the landing, and might make a break for it down the stairs today, if Dr Spencer and his mother allowed it. He was finally onto solid foods – if stewed apple and stewed vegetables could really be classified as either – and might be permitted a plum puff, if his stomach and his conscience didn't recoil from the thought.

He washed, dressed, despaired of his wild hair, and had just opened his bedroom door to call down for breakfast, when he heard new voices in conversation. Perhaps Fred had returned, after his visit yesterday, beaming at Gilbert's upturn in health and the joys of fatherhood? Or Uncle George running some errand?

 _No._

 _Female_ voices.

 _A particular_ female voice.

A particular soft – _unusually_ soft, in this instance – melodious voice, which had acted as a siren song to him from the moment he had first heard it, before he had tugged her red braid that day - a world ago away - and the voice had changed key sharply, leaping from melody to shriek.

The voice he could have sworn had called to him - incredibly, incomprehensibly, inconceivably – during the fierce final night of his fever, when in his darkest despair he had cried her name, and _she_ had answered.

He backed into the room; standing, swaying, struck dumb.

"Gil?" his father appeared in the doorway. "Are you ready for a visitor?"

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*Tennyson _'In Memoriam: A.H.H.'_

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 40)

*** _Anne of Avonlea_ (Ch 30)

****Jane Austen _Pride and Prejudice_ (Ch 36)

***** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 28)

****** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 20)

With acknowledgement to two other additional writers who have tackled this time period - _Betha Willis_ and _LizzyEastwood._ I haven't read Bertha's story but look forward to doing so when this in finished. As for Lizzy - so sorry I HAVE read your wonderful _Courage To Try Again_ in my very first months on this site, and then, even though the title was stuck in my head, promptly forgot that you had written it! It is marvellous and I do apologise for my lapse! It is heartily recommended and I dare not read it again yet or will be too intimidated to finish this one!


	4. Chapter 4 Reckoning

**Author's Note:**

Well, the conversation/confrontation we had to have…

Hopefully you will find it a valuable step forward for our favourite almost-couple.

I originally envisioned this as a five or six chapter story, not fully appreciating the wonder of your response to it or my own need to keep writing it! I can safely say this is looking to be ten if not twelve chapters now (and an additional week or two!) so do settle in!

For those wondering, despite the events depicted here, if a certain letter is still to arrive for Gilbert, I can assure you he will get to his overdue correspondence very soon!

As always, your reviews thrill me, and your favs and follows are so appreciated.

A special welcome to both new readers and old friends alike x

With love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 **Reckoning**

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

There were certainly far less fraught circumstances in which a twenty-two year old woman and a twenty-five year old man might meet in a bedroom.

This wasn't, alas, to be the momentous culmination of the many fantasies that had fuelled the frustrated haze of his adolescence; or the yearning ache accompanying his early adulthood; or even the angry throb of longing that had stalked him these last two years. There was a pain, though; the dull, ever present twinge he had carried since Convocation, made suddenly, searingly acute; to have her _here,_ hesitating in the doorway, flamed-haired and lily-scented, though her eyes were huge and grey and shadowed and wondering, and her lips trembled when released from their faltering smile.

"Hello, Anne," he thought it best to offer, and nodded to his father, who departed with a polite smile and a careful look, leaving the door protectively ajar.

"H-Hello, Gilbert," she offered in return, clutching the coat in her hands tightly. "It… It's so very good to see you. We were all so terribly worried."

"Thank you. That is… appreciated," he offered tightly, not so much in annoyance as due to the fact his throat had regretfully closed over. "Would you… like to sit down?" he gestured to the one chair, though her eyes seemed drawn to the hastily made bed. "I'm afraid I'm a little short on furnishings."

 _And clothes…_ he lamented to himself, belting his dressing gown tighter.

She nodded stiffly and settled into the seat, and he took the edge of the bed for want of any alternative, though it put him in worryingly close proximity to those grave grey eyes that had so haunted him, and to the sound of her shallow, uneven breaths.

"Are you… _truly_ on the mend?" she blurted, and then bit her bottom lip as if to stop further unsolicited queries.

"Yes…" he frowned, misreading her discomfort. "My parents wouldn't have allowed you up here otherwise, Anne, and neither would I."

"No… that's not… that's not what I meant." Her eyes lifted their gaze to roam over his face, brows coming together in consternation.

"Well, I'm no oil painting at the moment, obviously," he huffed, offering a chagrined smile which stretched his still-gaunt features. "But then you should have seen me a week ago."

She met his wry flippancy with a barely disguised horror, mouth opening on a startled breath and auburn brows flying upwards. "Oh, _Gil!_ "

This truly drew his attention, and he met her eyes properly for the first time.

"Sorry, Anne. Bad taste, there."

"I didn't _know!_ " she gasped, meeting his gaze with a look full of anguish. "I'm so sorry, Gil! I was up at Echo Lodge with the Irvings. Otherwise I would have… I would have come sooner. I didn't even know you were sick – not till I even came back to Green Gables, the night of the storm."

"Yes, I heard about the storm. Later, of course," he placated. "It's alright, Anne. I would never have expected you to dance attendance on me."

This remark had far from the desired effect, and seemed to cause her even more aggrievement.

"You think I wouldn't even have bothered to _come_? You think I wouldn't have _cared_ if you lived or… or _died_?" she questioned plaintively.

 _To care… to care… to care…_

His eyes inadvertently strayed to the apple tree cutting, beginning to show a stubborn, resilient bud of white blossom, and hers followed his look desperately.

"Anne… I didn't mean to imply that. Of course you'd be… concerned. I only meant that you have… other things to worry about now…." He almost bit back the next words, but felt it was best to get the inevitable agony over with; to pour alcohol over the open wound so it wouldn't continue to fester and rot; to have the dread admission, finally, from her lips. "That you have… _arrangements_ to make," he ground out.

"Arrangements?" she asked dully.

 _God's teeth,_ did she have to be so difficult and obtuse? Did she not have _any_ idea how horrendous this was for him?

"Well, naturally. Where you'll live and…"

"Oh. Yes. Well… ah… Summerside," she admitted, distractedly.

" _Summerside?_ Not Kingsport?"

"Well, no… I applied to schools there too, of course, but – "

"You mean to _teach?_ "

"Well, yes, of course."

"In _Summerside?"_

"It's a little far, I know… Marilla is concerned by the distance, but… it's still on the Island, so that I may come visit on weekends and… well… working, ah, _here_ wasn't really an option and… well… it's a Principalship, you see."

"I see," he nodded, though really he didn't. He couldn't understand why Roy would want to be separated from her for _any_ length of time, let alone a minimum yearly contract, and it was undoubtedly not an issue of money. His support of her ambitions was laudable but also puzzling; it seemed unlike him. Gilbert thought Anne would have been signed up for every fashionable ladies' guild and charitable cause in Kingsport already. "That's… that's marvellous, Anne. Congratulations."

"Thank you," she answered faintly, coloring.

There was a soft knock at the door, and his mother appeared with a tea tray.

"We thought you might like some refreshments," she announced uncomfortably, her amazement evidently fighting her relief to see them both calmly seated, conducting what appeared to be a perfectly civilised conversation.

"Ah, tea…" he smiled, eager for the distraction. "Thanks very much, Ma."

"There are also some plum puffs from Green Gables, fresh baked this morning I'm told," Mrs Blythe conceded. "That has been very kind of you this week, Anne."

"Not at all…" Anne murmured, flushing at the sudden appraisal of both he and his mother.

"Perhaps… try a nibble of toast as well, Gilbert," his mother urged, before leaving them, with an apprehensive air, to their cosily, disconcertingly domestic scene.

"It certainly _was_ kind, Anne," he ventured. "The baking, that is."

"Oh, well…" she appeared flustered at this, moving around uncomfortably in her seat, "I wasn't sure if you knew whether… they were from me…"

"You think after all this time I wouldn't know something from the kitchen of Green Gables?" he raised a derisive eyebrow, and his lips gave a quirk. " _Or_ my father, for that matter. Though _he_ was the only one of us to be able to indulge in them, as yet."

She bit her lip at this, though her countenance seemed to relax.

"I have only even been able to have _tea_ since late _yesterday._ There was worry about my hydration levels and tea actually works as a diuretic. That is, it works to counteract… ah… the retainment of… water." His face flushed to think of all the things, here he was talking _fluid retention_ in his _bedroom_ with _Anne._

"You must have plenty of the _right_ liquids, absolutely…" she offered in gently humorous rescue of his embarrassment. "Raspberry cordial would probably _not_ be recommended in this instance…" she gave the tiniest flash of her old smile.

"Certainly not _Marilla's_ version of it, _that's_ for sure…" he gave a hint of his old grin, and her eyes surveyed him with a precious, long-sought green to their depths. He wondered errantly how many of the old stories Gardner knew or cared to know… of the impulsive, eager, vibrant girl long since buried beneath this poised model of perfection. The hint of the old camaraderie _hurt,_ now, to think of the friends they had been. Was she only relaxing with him now because she was safeguarded from him and his unwelcome overtures by another man?

"Would you like me to do the honours?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes. Sure. Thanks."

She removed the coat that had been sitting across her lap all this time, allowing him to fully appreciate her pretty pale blue dress. He loved her in cotton and muslin and lace, with a fairy crown of wildflowers. How long until she was swathed in silks and swaddled in furs? How long before she became a bejewelled society hostess he didn't recognize anymore?

He had always admired her fingers; long and slim and pale. Had often wondered how it would feel to have them caress his face or knot his tie or _unknot_ his tie or tackle his buttons or run her fingers through his hair… he grimaced, disgusted with himself, and turned away, but a fleeting thought made him turn back, and he stared at something he knew was amiss…

"No ring?" he asked suddenly, in a gravelly voice that nearly caused her to miss his cup altogether.

" _Pardon me?_ "

"No _ring,_ Anne? You needn't hide it just to spare my feelings _._ "

She stilled, replacing the teapot carefully.

"There… there _is_ no ring…" she offered in a depthless whisper.

" _No_ ring?" he repeated, uncomprehendingly. "I am disappointed he was so ill prepared." He gave a mocking smirk that was probably beneath him, conveniently forgetting how _he_ had come to her in the orchard at Patty's Place that desperate, dire day with nothing but the clothes on his back and the misguided love in his heart.

There was something about her look to him that was very, very strange.

"Anne… are you telling me he hasn't… _proposed_ yet _?"_

She put his proffered cup and saucer back down with a loud rattle. "No. He did," she answered on a quivering breath.

It took her a long time to meet his eyes, which were smarting with the effort to keep his emotions in check. He just wanted to understand what was going _on._ He needed something to stop his unsteady heart from collapsing inside his chest.

"I refused him."

The words swirled around him like a whirlpool.

"What do you mean… you _refused_ him?"

"It is normally not a sentence that needs explanation, Gilbert!" she hissed haughtily.

"I am familiar with the notion _myself,_ Anne," he scowled, "but I am just not understanding it in _this_ instance."

"I _refused_ him. I didn't _love_ him. Ergo, I couldn't _marry_ him!"

She had stood in her agitation, cheeks burning, eyes blazing with a wonderful, distracting green. He stared up into them, entranced, even as his world began to tilt wildly off its axis.

"You're not engaged to him?" he didn't even recognise the sound of his own voice. "You're _not engaged_ to Roy Gardner?"

She opened and closed her mouth, but there were no words forming.

"After _two years_ you realised you didn't love him? At… what? The very _moment_ he _proposed_ to you?" he was genuinely dumbfounded.

Anne did nothing to contradict his assertion, but stared down at him, aghast.

"God Almighty, Anne, I almost feel sorry for the fellow."

Her head jerked at that, and she sprung away from him, heading for the door.

"I don't think you are well enough for us to continue this conversation, Gilbert!" she cried, grasping the handle.

"No! Anne! _Please!"_ he edged around the bed and all but flung himself at the door, pressing it shut with some force, the sound hopefully not enough to carry all the way to the parlour but resounding around them in the small room like a ricocheted bullet. She turned to him, mouth agape.

"Gilbert! What are you _doing_? I can't be … in _here…_ with _you…_ like _this!"_

"Anne, I _swear_ to you no harm will come to you or your reputation. The very _last_ thing I want is to have you … compromised… in any way. But there is no one to know you are in here like this with me, save the three people downstairs who would _swallow swords_ for us, now currently enduring the world's most awkward morning tea, which for them might feel dangerously close to the same thing. I just…" he closed his eyes briefly, against the sensation of his spinning head. "I'm just… trying… to understand. Help me _understand,_ Anne."

"I will…" she gulped. "But _please,_ Gilbert… come and sit down. You need to have something to drink…"

"When?" he demanded, ignoring her request. "And in God's name, _why?_ I thought all along you refused _me_ because I couldn't live up to… to… your dream of what the ideal man was meant to be and…"

" _Gilbert!"_ she cried, appalled. " _Please!_ "

"I'm _sorry_ , Anne, if this is so painful for you. But I have been wrestling with this for _two years._ I never knew what I could have done to make my suit any more appealing –"

"Your _suit,_ Gilbert? Or do you mean your _ambush?"_

Now it was _his_ turn to stare in horror, and he backed away from the door and her response, and the accusation embedded in it.

"What do you _mean_ by that, Anne?" his heart lurched sickeningly.

"I mean… I mean… I tried so hard, to stop you asking, Gilbert! But you wouldn't _hear_ me! You were like a steam train! I _knew_ that it would change everything between us. I _knew!_ And it _did,_ Gilbert! _Everything_ changed! I lost you _forever_ that day!"

"I _loved_ you, Anne…" he quailed, fumbling for reason in this freefall. " _You_ never wanted to hear _me! All_ the times I tried to show you how much I cared. To be something more to you. And you wouldn't let me in. You never let me _try_ to be the man for you! I lost _you_ that day too, remember! You don't know how I have berated myself for speaking up that day. I wish to God a thousand times over I'd never opened my mouth!"

Their voices had climbed in octave and volume, but now in the dreadful silence he heard nothing but the sound of his soul dying. She hadn't loved him. Could never love him. She had told him that in no uncertain terms. But her desolate look to him now made his heart shrivel.

"I came here today to ask if I could be your friend again, Gilbert," she explained throatily, her eyes darkening to charcoal; not a hint of green to soften the blow. "Because you nearly died, and I would have lost you all over again… _irretrievably._ " She paused and took a great, shuddering breath. "But I can see you can't forgive me for things I did when I didn't understand myself… for when I was stupid and foolish. I treated you so badly, and I'm so sorry. The orchard at Patty's Place… and Roy… and…and… C-Convocation… they are things _I_ can never take back, either."

He stared at her, weak and suddenly exhausted.

"You had every right to refuse me, Anne," he answered, bleakly, running a hand through his curls. "I guess I didn't ever consider things from your perspective, there. Only mine. _My_ feelings. _My_ wishes. _My_ fear of losing you. And I lost you, anyway."

There was nothing to say to refute that, and she didn't even try… just leaned back against the door, her entire being proclaiming her misery… her slight, slumped shoulders, her bloodless lips, her starkly grey eyes.

"But… you mentioned Convocation…" he pressed, because he _was_ a steam train, and it was obvious he was beyond any sort of stopping or sense now. "I just can't _fathom_ you there. First the flowers, and then… he breathed deeply, trying not to have his hurt leech out of him. "Not even _one_ dance, Anne. Not _one,_ after all of the years and the study together and the dreams we exchanged. We had dreamt of that moment since the time we'd been teaching – "

"I _know,_ Gilbert!' she choked out. "That's why I chose your lilies! Because the moment was _ours._ It didn't belong to Roy!"

He took a halting half step forward. "Then why the blazes Anne couldn't you bear to have _one dance_ with me?"

"What does it even _matter_ now? You were with Christine! You had _her_ and you didn't need _me!"_

" _That's insane, Anne! I have always needed you!"_ is what he should have said. Is what he wanted to say.

"That's not right, Anne. And it didn't _make_ it right," were the words he heard himself uttering instead.

She gaped at him, as if trying to hold on to some sort of internal resolution, but then she crumpled before him, muttering brokenly. "You really _do_ hate me."

"No, Anne. _No._ If you think that, even now, then you don't know me at all."

He winced at the words, made harsher than he had intended, with the sudden pain that shot through his temple. He didn't want her to see him like this, weak and incapacitated.

"I won't keep you…" he pulled open the door again, before staggering away from her to slump back on the bed. "Please go, as you wish. I have no right to ask you to stay."

"I have no right to think you would want me to…" he thought he heard her murmur, but his head had begun to pound, and the throbbing took precedence over everything.

"Gilbert? Are you alright?" he heard the new panic in her voice as he rubbed roughly at his temples; she sounded echoing and far away, as if calling to him through the far end of a long tunnel.

"Headache," he bit out.

"Gilbert… here… you need to get into bed. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come…" she grasped his side, to manoeuvre him under the covers, not daring to undo his dressing gown and he not bothering to. He fell back against the pillows, upright but only barely, as she fumbled with the water pitcher, closing his eyes tight against the sensation of his brain being tugged out through his ears. Anne pressed a glass to his lips moments later, and he gulped it as a child, greedy for the refreshment and her nearness, his hand coming over hers and his overbright, glazed hazel eyes lifting to search her face.

"To… _understand,_ Anne…" he gasped, determined not to lose the thread of her explanation amongst the bitter back and forth of their recriminations. "You promised you would… explain…"

She bent down to kneel by the bed, her face heated and her eyes dazzling. She put her free hand over his as it was over hers; hand upon hand upon hand, like the children's game.

"He didn't belong in my life," she offered simply, with a look to him that was full of meaning he didn't trust himself to interpret. "And I _know_ I didn't belong in _his_."

He swallowed with difficulty. "Well, that'll do it," he gave a twisted smile, and her lips curved upwards at that, and she was _so near… so near… so near…_ and his head was split in two and if he _did_ pass out from his damned head and from the knowledge of having two years of grieving the loss of her only to have her _here now_ and _not_ engaged… well, it might almost be worth it.

" _Stay,"_ he pleaded raggedly. "Stay, Anne."

The mesmeric tears spilled over her cheeks, and he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

"Of _course,_ Gil…"

"Gilbert!" came another voice at the door, and they both turned, astonished, to the sound of it.

"Ma…" he offered on a groan that wasn't _entirely_ due to his splitting skull.

"Gilbert…?" she came in warily, eying the two of them in passionately chaste exchange, and he was grateful he had opened the door on them again. "What's wrong, love?"

"It's just a bad headache, Ma…" he tried to downplay the pain through gritted teeth.

He knew she would spring into action at that.

"You need some water love, and a powder. And _rest._ I feared this was too much excitement for you."

The reproof to Anne was heard loud and clear, and he could already see her, expression becoming shuttered, moving away from him instantly with a guilty flush, impatiently brushing away her tears, limpid grey-green eyes wide and sorrowful.

"Ma, I have asked Anne to stay, and she has kindly agreed… to be here after I've rested and shaken this..."

"Well, thank you Anne, I am sure Gilbert appreciates that," his mother offered in a voice that fought to be neutral, but might be threaded with iron. "Though Miss Cuthbert may venture an opinion on the matter."

Through his temporal pain he saw a lightning bolt; a flash of green again in those eyes he had known so well. And another welcome sight; that pointed chin, tilting ever so slightly upwards.

"I wouldn't wish to trespass on your hospitality at this time, Mrs Blythe, or to go against Marilla's wishes… Though she is supportive of any decision I make as an independent woman of twenty two… I only wish… to honour Gilbert's request, if I may."

He gulped the headache powder quickly whilst he could still stomach it, and had been coaxed by his mother's hands to lie down during this speech, though now he had to cover his delighted, disbelieving grin with the edge of the blanket, though it hurt to even smile at this point. An extraordinary thought punctured his pitifully pained state; she was _fighting_ for the _right_ to _be with him._

 _She cared… She cared … She cared …_

She met his eyes in a shared long, longing look before his mother ushered her out.


	5. Chapter 5 Contemplating

_**Author's Note**_

 _Thank you for the patient wait for this chapter. I have been unwell and thus very behind in thanking people for their lovely thoughts on this._

 _I am, as ever, so thrilled by your responses and grateful for your generosity._

 _Love_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 **Contemplating**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Hovering in the doorway to his bedroom, portal to his private world, she glimpsed a man who used to be Gilbert.

 _This_ was not Gilbert. It _couldn't_ be. Not this pallid, painfully thin pretender; this wasted wreck; this emaciated interloper.

 _It's not him… it's not him… it's not him…_

God was obviously playing a cruel trick, or else _he_ was; to leap out at her from around the corner at any moment, delighting in her shock and surprise; the boy of _Carrots_ who _torments our lives out_ *reverting to long-ago form…

Anne felt herself staring too much in her shock… _questioning… quivering … quaking…_ and tried her best to summon a smile. He offered his own, alongside a studied salutation, and she felt herself truly tumbling down _Alice's_ rabbit-hole … _falling… falling… falling…_ and finding it impossible to orientate herself in time or space. She clutched her coat; she collapsed into the chair; she considered his beloved, beautiful face, the skin now stretched too tight; the color too waxy and pale; the smile sliding into grimace. Only his eyes held a hint of _him,_ and she sought them desperately, even as she shied from the hurt and hopelessness within their depths.

Had _she_ done that? Was _she_ responsible for that look from him, the other side of Death, which he had fought so bravely, only to fall at the remembrance of her cruelty?

She shouldn't be here; she knew that now. She had no right, and she was doing no good. Only… only… the exchange of an old joke and the sharing of a new smile, and…

 _It was him… It was him… It was him…_

Her heart thundered with a new knowledge of what he meant to her, had always meant to her, only now properly, painfully understood, as she busied herself in the comforting mundanity of tea, hoping it would help circumvent the surreal nature of their circumstances. She tried not to dwell on the precious features she thought she might never see again, remade into the form of this heroic knight, so tested in battle; the escaped top button of his pyjamas freeing the stubbly terrain of his throat … his Adam's apple bobbing distractingly… the way his long lashes swept shadows onto his poor, sunken cheeks… his dark curls cresting his brow… his still _splendid_ chin or his noble nose or his perfectly formed lips or his –

"No ring?" he had asked her, and his bewildering nearness; the low-pitched growl of his question, had caused her to panic. Evasive and tongue-tied, she tripped over his questions, not certain why if he was with Christine it even mattered if she was engaged to twenty men, and none of them would be his equal anyway. But he _would_ badger her and she _would_ flare, shamefully, in response, and she found herself leaning against the door, with his desperate, devastating look to her… and if he asked her to _help him understand,_ well, then, the answer was likewise as baffling and as bewildering to her.

 _I love you…_ might have been all the answer he required, once. Long ago, when he had grasped her hand and declared his own feelings, which she had denied and trampled and ground into the dust. _Your friendship can't satisfy me…_ ** were his words _then_ which hovered now in the hum of history between them, even as she had nothing left but to ask for his own favour of friendship, unworthy of it as she was.

To see him gripped by that sudden, searing pain, though, tore at something fundamental within her; she felt it as if it was her own, a _cord of communion_ *** akin, she supposed, to that between a mother and a child, or… as one soul to its mate. She knew in that moment she would do anything for him, even to leave…

… but incredibly, inconceivably… he had asked her to stay.

* * *

Downstairs in the small, nicely appointed parlour, Marilla broke off her sensible small-talk with John Blythe, searching with loving concern over Anne's white, pinched face.

"How does Gilbert today?" she asked carefully, her tone noting the awkwardness with which Anne conducted herself, and the darting looks she gave Ella Blythe.

"He has another very bad headache," Ella announced to the room, her frown seeming etched into her tired features, causing a sagging motion southwards that was as fearsome as it was unbecoming.

"Did he take a powder?" Mr Blythe asked, to which he received a curt nod. "Well, then, Dr Spencer will be here for his visit soon, and we can see what he says about the matter."

"He will say rest and recuperation, John. A quiet household and a calm environment."

John, clearly embarrassed, flicked a guilty glance at Marilla and then Anne, the meaning behind such sentiments clear. Anne felt her cheeks enflame at this admonishment, thinking with a heavy heart how once Mrs Blythe had welcomed her into her home with a generous smile and an encouraging air, and now could not wait to see her rid of it.

"Perhaps we should take our leave…" Marilla offered in conciliatory fashion, with a mindful smile to the couple who had been through so much. "Anne, love, what say you come back tomorrow, when everyone is fresh and rested?"

"I… I don't wish to intrude. It's just that Gilbert… asked me to stay. He specifically requested I be here when he starts to feel better." Anne's face showed two lingering bright blotches of discomfort at the admission. "I'd hate to disappoint him." _Again._

"I'm sure it can't hurt…" John offered encouragingly. "Particularly if it is _Gil's_ wish." The last sentence was directed at his wife, with whom he had several moments of silent communication before Ella bid them a tight-lipped thanks and farewell, begging off to sit with her son until the doctor's arrival.

"If Anne's of a mind to stay, and it's Gil's express wish, then we'd be very grateful," John Blythe remarked to no one in particular. "I believe he'd be relieved to have the company, and it might give his mother some comfort to know he _can_ be cared for in her absence…" he crossed his strong arms over his chest defensively. "It's been rather a hard few weeks… on all of us."

Marilla nodded in sympathy, giving him a watery smile.

"We hope to support you - all of you - any way we can, John. Though I must leave the final decision to Anne," she offered, turning to her now with a question in her eyes. "Regretfully I need to get back to the twins, and so…"

"I'll be fine, thank you, Marilla, as long as Mr and Mrs Blythe are easy in the knowledge that I might stay awhile…"

"Consider it done, Anne," John gifted his son's lovely Blythe smile. "We'll make sure you have a proper spot of tea now yourself," he turned then to Marilla, to include her in the promise, "and when your visit is finished I'll personally see you home."

"Thank you, John," Marilla answered for the both of them.

Anne and Marilla walked out behind him and watched from the verandah as he strolled back towards the barn to fetch the horse and buggy.

"How bad was it, Marilla?" Anne blurted. "Upstairs just now? What were you able to overhear?"

Marilla Cuthbert's smile was knowing, and she lifted a wry eyebrow. "Nothing distinct. Just raised voices in excitable exchange. I would say… the same as it ever was, between you and Gilbert," she finished leadingly.

"Oh that it _would_ be…" Anne sighed, with a little of her old dramatic fervour.

"Anne, are you sure you're right to stay? You mustn't feel obligated, love."

"I am, and I _do._ But it's not the sort of obligation you're suggesting, Marilla. It's not… _that._ It's… it's all those weeks when I wasn't with him, and could do nothing for him… I'll do all that I can _now,_ as his friend, if he'll have me, and if Mrs Blythe will tolerate me… it's a very small service, but I mean to do it, all the same."

"I'm sure Gilbert would not think it small.''

Anne lifted her narrow shoulders. "Perhaps not… To see him well again would be worth it, Marilla. I can't tell you… the change in him…" she shuddered, and more tears threatened. "Even if it's only to get him well for Christine Stuart," she ended on a gulp.

"Anne, I don't understand this supposed attachment to that girl."

"He didn't deny it, Marilla… although we were sidetracked by talk of… Roy and... other things."

"Well, Anne," Marilla turned to her with a heartening smile, "Roy is in your past, and this Christine is not currently in _his_ present. _You_ are." There was a flash of humour to her look as she patted her cheek affectionately and then she moved, laden with their runaway baskets, to have John Blythe hand her up to the buggy, with the gentlemanly care she fondly remembered from decades before.

John Blythe turned to Anne as they waved Marilla off. "Well, now, I think I've left a _few_ plum puffs for you, Anne. What say we have them outside here on this fine morning?"

* * *

John Blythe had always had a manner and a presence reminding her somewhat of Matthew; a gentle nature and a cordial reserve; a steady hand through a crisis; and an enormous capacity for hard, honest work. But whereas Matthew had been shy and retiring, John Blythe was knowing and quietly witty, with an impish humour his son had most definitely inherited. Anne drew comfort from the companionable silence between them seated in the chairs on the sun-filled verandah, even as her thoughts strayed to the man resting upstairs in his boyhood abode, wondering what she would possibly say to him in the aftermath of their stormy interlude.

Mr Blythe had for a few minutes considered his beverage with a frowning deliberation, but now he put down his cup firmly, and clasped his large, brown, long fingered hands – Gilbert's hands – together.

"You mustn't mind Mrs Blythe, Anne…" he began after a time, gaze lighting on her before seeking some indeterminate point in the middle distance. "The last weeks have put quite the strain on her. She doesn't mean to be hard on you."

Anne may have expected many conversational openings, but never _this_ one.

"Mr Blythe, I never would think… that is, I am sure that I… that I am not deserving of any… spared feelings or, ah, special treatment," she admitted, miserable to have uttered the sentiments aloud.

He looked to her sharply, eyes softening in contemplation. "That seems like an awful lot of guilt for such a little body to be carrying around, Anne."

She blushed furiously at this.

"And _misplaced,_ too," he added.

"You are… t-too kind, Mr Blythe. I wish that is _was_. But I made many mistakes, concerning Gil… I… looking back, I did not treat him… as well as I ought. I _do_ feel guilt about my actions and behaviour, and I _do_ regret them…" Anne dashed at her tears, reaching in desperation for her tea.

"Well, now, we all have regrets regarding Gil…" John Blythe offered carefully.

Anne's wide, grey eyes were agog at this.

"We knew he was… _low_ … halfway through his course…" John alluded, studiously avoiding her gaze. "We left him to his feelings, rather than support him through it. He wasn't a boy any longer, after all, as he continually reminded us…" his lips quirked at the memory. "So we let him work through it on his own, and to work through his summers, hardly having a break. I was proud of his independence, but I should have done more to help him. Could have sold something more off at this end, eased the burden for him…"

Anne bit her lip, not trusting herself to reply. It was not a secret that several acres of the Blythe farm had been sacrificed to help finance Gilbert's studies.

"By final year he was almost obsessed with that scholarship… but we let it go on too long, and get too much… We should have gone to see him, should have asked him to ease off…"

"Mr Blythe!" she leapt in defence. "You couldn't have possibly known! None of us knew quite how… how _hard_ he was working…" _Or had cared to know…_ she thought to herself now in mortification, remembering how she had barely seen him since the winter, all-too happy and relieved to be caught up in her own social whirl.

"Well, we have the result of it, of course _. And_ the cost," the older man added, quietly.

Anne bit down on her lip, agonised.

"So Mrs Blythe…" her husband sighed, reconnecting to his original train of thought. "We didn't know if Gilbert would live or die, of course. She bore the brunt of it, too… of his care and such. The trained nurse helped some, but even that poor woman couldn't work round the clock. And then the last night…'fore his fever broke, the night of the storm… it was as if Mother Nature herself was fighting the good Lord for his soul… It's not a night I want to live through ever again, and that's for certain…" he turned to contemplate her carefully. "And by the look of you the next morning, Anne, I'd have thought _you_ wouldn't want to live through it again, either."

Her cheeks burned betrayingly.

"I should have been here, Mr Blythe," Anne was beyond composure now, and had given up stifling her tears, until her companion offered his hankerchief with an affectionate look. "I should have been here, with you both…" _With him._

"You _were,_ Anne," he declared, letting the sentence hang in the air, announcing itself. Mr Blythe put a hand to his face, rubbing it tiredly. "He called for you, in his fever. _Often._ I wouldn't … _infringe_ upon his privacy, only I thought it might help you to know, and I believe that… it goes some way towards explaining, er, his mother's actions now. Rightly or wrongly, in her mind, you are wrapped up in the pain and the fear of those final days and nights… I am sure her demeanour will lighten as Gilbert improves…" They both looked up to the buggy approaching, heralding the arrival of the doctor.

"Will you be with us now, Anne, and wait it out till that time comes? Till they are _both_ recovered?"

 _He'd called for her… he'd called for her… he'd called for her…_

Anne could do nothing but nod resolutely, the ability to form actual words quite beyond her, earning from him a generous smile.

"Well, that's all for the good then, Anne," he nodded himself, giving her shuddering shoulder a squeeze of solidarity. "And I'd expect nothing less of Marilla's girl."

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert awoke to a cleared head and a calmed soul, and to a world bathed in the light of a new awareness; he was here, and so was Anne, and neither had other claims upon them.

He had woken to a world – _his_ world - that Anne _wanted_ to be part of.

He had to take a moment to fully appreciate this extraordinary reversal of fortune; Anne was _not_ engaged. She did _not_ love Roy. Those facts alone seemed as incredible as him having defeated typhoid. He had never loved a little word so much… _not… not… not…_ Oh, the hopeful disbelief – the disbelieving hope! – of that negative flipped to positive; of despair turned upside down.

Along with _not_ had been other little, worthy words, equally charged and important; _sorry… friend._

He had waited so long to hear _those_ words, too, and the overturning of all the old, sad certainties that heralded them. If she wanted to be his friend then she did not consider him her foe. If she was sorry she had hurt him then she had realised that he mattered to her.

He had waited the better part of a decade for these realisations to come to her, if they ever would, and had almost lost heart. He remembered only too well his thoughts before they had left for Redmond, four years earlier; _I wonder if I can ever make her care for me._ **** By that stage years of careful, circumspect treatment of her; the boy-comrade mantle she best liked and that he had so leaned on, was beginning to chafe; a hair shirt of denial and discipline he longed to tear off.

Oh, yes, in desperation and pent-up desire he had certainly torn if off, and how. He had ripped it from his body and in doing so had ripped the fabric of their friendship asunder. And both of them left mourning the beauty of what had been rent; carrying around the ragged scraps of what remained, unsure how to ever properly stitch them back together.

Anne had called his proposal an _ambush,_ and himself a steam train bearing down on her, unable to be stopped. Oh, that had _hurt._ His first reaction was how hellishly unfair that was… until he began to see… how it might be true. Nothing, he remembered with a pang, was going to stop him declaring himself to her… not even the lady in question.

Gilbert sighed, pausing in his redressing, determined to meet Anne again, if she was still even here, with some decent clothes on, at the very least. He'd managed trousers and shirt and suspenders but thought shoes today might be beyond him. Still, he felt more himself than he had in a long, long time. Since, perhaps, that dreadful day, seated with Anne in the orchard, clasping her hand in his too tightly…

 _"Oh, don't say it… Don't - PLEASE, Gilbert."_

 _"I - I can't… Oh, Gilbert - you - you've spoiled everything."_

 _"Not - not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I don't love you, Gilbert."_

 _"No, I can't… I never, never can love you - in that way - Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again."_

 _"No – no… I don't care for any one like THAT - and I LIKE you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we must - we must go on being friends, Gilbert."_ **

He clenched his teeth and turned away, as if to rid himself of the memory of her words, which was a little difficult considering they had long ago been scratched onto his heart and seared into his brain. But he made himself hear them differently today. And all he heard was _don't_ and _can't_ and _no._ And… _please._

Oh, God, it _had_ been an ambush. All he heard now was her wish not to hear his thoughts, and how he had foisted them upon her anyway. The knowledge of his conduct heated his cheeks in shame and regret.

 _Friends._ It was all she had wanted … and if it hadn't been enough for him, if that alone couldn't _satisfy_ him, that hadn't been her fault.

But he could be friends with her _now._

His eyes lit on the apple tree cutting, standing sentinel; surviving even when the roses had to be replaced. He lifted it out of its little vase and inhaled the faint, woodsy scent; brushed his nose over the new blossom; held it before his eyes, and wondered.

He'd heard, later, how Anne had arrived that morning after his fever, after the storm, looking like something emerged from the woods herself. How in his most desperate moment she had gone to their tree and had brought some of it back for him. As hope? As reminder? As talisman? As gift?

As _message?_

He twirled it gently in his fingers, smiling softly to himself, contemplating.

 _I refused him… I didn't love him… Ergo, I couldn't marry him!_

 _Sorry, Roy,_ he thought. _It's not like I haven't been there myself… but that was_ _just about the best thing I have ever heard in my life._

A knock at his door made him replace the sprig hurriedly, brushing aside some of his stockpiled correspondence; something new evidently arrived that morning, from the university, perhaps checking the most recent recipient of the Cooper Prize had not inconvenienced them by dying; and another Kingsport missive, from the pen of the newlywed Mrs Philippa Blake.

"Gilbert, love!" his mother now entered, now doubt astonished to see him up, let alone actually dressed. "I'm sorry, I only left you for ten minutes or so, once you were sleeping again…" she faltered, eyes wide on his as he approached her slowly.

"Ma, please don't worry. The headache's passed and I'm feeling _much_ better." He smiled down on her, perhaps properly for the first time since his illness, hands on her shoulders, and then gave her a grateful kiss on her cheek.

"Well, love, that's wonderful, but you mustn't overdo it… and at any rate, the doctor's arrived." Ella Blythe evidently didn't know whether to be pleased or overwhelmed, joyous or cautious, and so her demeanour was an unhappy mix of all.

"That's great. I might go downstairs to meet him." _And someone else._

" _Downstairs,_ love?" his mother queried worriedly. "Do you really think…?"

He enveloped her in a hug; all elbows and angles, such as the youth who greeted her back from Alberta all those years ago, with not yet enough flesh to hold up his fast-growing bones.

"Baby steps, Ma, I promise!" he chuckled, with some of his old, light boyishness, knowing the vow wasn't just for her.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

* _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 15)

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 20)

***Charlotte Bronte _Jane Eyre_ (Ch 23)

**** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 2)


	6. Chapter 6 Believing

**Author's Note**

I am sorry to have been unable to answer many of your lovely responses and reviews. They have buoyed me as I navigate sickness and school holidays - a dread combination! Thank you to everyone who has responded to this, and to my other stories. I haven't forgotten your faith in me, and in this!

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 **Believing**

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

In years gone by he had bounded with boyish enthusiasm down the stairs to greet her, flushed and eager, as they met to study their courses or work out the agenda for the next AVIS meeting. They would sit at the dining room table, an indulgence his mother only permitted when he was in Anne's company, with books and papers peppering the shined surface, and put the world to rights over Shakespeare and paint colors.

He now took the stairs carefully, his tread as measured as an old man's, though his heart swelled with _old blossoming hopes_ * that were as young and youthful as ever; and as stubbornly resilient as the new buds on the apple tree cutting upstairs.

He hadn't quite believed Anne would wait for him until he saw her, standing as unobtrusively as she could manage with her flaming hair, watching his progress towards them with shining eyes, and when he met her look he nearly took an extra step inadvertently, which would have had him falling quite literally at her feet.

He corrected himself and was a picture of studied calm as he accepted his father's greeting and offered his own to Dr Spencer. There was a little guest room downstairs, recently vacated by the nurse, and this is to where they adjourned for his examination, Gilbert showering the doctor with questions about his limited capabilities and how best to address his recovery.

"There doesn't seem to be any complications, as you said," Gilbert mentioned, in eager self-diagnosis. "No internal bleeding, no blood in stools, no heart or chest pain, only a little shortness of breath, but lungs seem to be clear…"

"They are," Dr Spencer gave bemused confirmation, having just listened to both chest and back with his stethoscope to give credence to this assertion.

"And no residual inflammation of the pancreas or gall bladder…" Gilbert added helpfully, as Dr Spencer's fingers prodded his stomach and sides, once distended, now shrunk to post-illness normality.

"Mmm…" the good doctor smiled, and then checked Gilbert's glands. "Headaches?" he asked, pointedly.

"Yes," Gilbert answered reluctantly. "A few."

"Severe?"

"Occasionally…"

" _Hydration,"_ Dr Spencer offered sternly.

"Yes, Doctor…"

"It's most important, Gilbert. Rest, too. And no over-excitement."

"Have you been speaking to my mother?" he answered somewhat mulishly, to which Dr Spencer gave a great guffaw.

"Didn't need to. I saw your _guest._ "

This made Gilbert redden shamefully, and he thought best to divert the conversation.

"Will I be ready… for medical school?" he asked quietly, the lingering doubts darkening his mood and his tone.

"I can't see why not," Dr Spencer clapped him gently on the shoulder. "You wouldn't be hit with any clinical visits first up, so that will assist you, though sleep and good nutrition will be essential. If I have any reservations I'll write a letter to the Dean closer to the time, asking for a little leeway to support you in returning to the grind. And it _is_ a grind, Gilbert, and no mistake. You must learn to pace yourself properly, and not burn the candle at both ends."

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll be careful."

"Rest and regeneration, Gilbert. I know how eager you must be to get back to your life. But you've been through an ordeal, and you must be mindful. The headaches will pass, and I'll leave some more powders, but use them sparingly, or even at half measure. Good food and rest and _fluids_ and gentle exercise. Fresh air. Don't hit the books for a while. Get a little sun on your face. Have a pleasant conversation with a pretty lady." The last was added with all but a smirk, and those sharp eyes glimmered beneath bushy grey brows.

"Ah, about that…" Gilbert's cheeks flamed, and he didn't even know quite what he was asking, or even _why_. "It's… _safe_ … to be with her? To be in, ah, _close_ proximity?"

That old, knowing smile had turned gentle at his discomfort, well used to the meandering questions of mumbling teenage boys or embarrassed swains or even the occasional young groom before the wedding night, wanting to ensure everything was in proper working order.

"I'd probably leave it a week or so before any mouth-to-mouth greetings," the older man announced with admirable blandness, and choose to ignore Gilbert's sudden coughing fit in reply.

"I'll call again in three days, Gilbert," Dr Spencer now grinned unrepentantly. "Send word if there is any need to see you earlier. Otherwise, try to enjoy a little of the summer. Goodness knows you've earned it."

Gilbert shook hands warmly. "Thanks, Sir. For everything."

"Well, it might be _my_ thanks I'm giving to _you_. You're a bit of a miracle, young Blythe, and it's heartening to know they still exist. You've got to hold on to the good luck stories. Use them to help temper the bad. You'll learn it yourself, in time. Medicine is as much about faith and belief as science. Never forget the difference they can make."

 _Belief… belief… belief…_

He realised he hadn't _believed_ in anything for a long time. Dare he try to now?

* * *

The sun on his face did indeed feel fabulous, through the restorative measures of a good cup of tea, a sliver of toast and a plum puff were such that he would never take them for granted again. Nor the presence of Anne next to him on the verandah, allowing him the opportunity, lost to him for so long, to _meditate on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow._ **

He had seen his mother off, with some amazement on his part and reluctance on hers, to pay Mrs Harmon Andrews an overdue call, urged by both his father and Dr Spencer that the break would do her the world of good, and that her son would have both Anne on hand and his own father in the lower field if any problem should arise. The good doctor had waited until Mrs Blythe was ready, offering to drop her himself, and Gilbert did not miss the grateful exchange that took place in the smile and nod that his father gave the venerable man before handing his wife up to the buggy.

John Blythe had then seen he and Anne settled, giving a fond look to both before he took off, whistling, for the relief of the outdoors.

And Gilbert found that he and Anne were finally alone.

He had missed the slow approach to summer, and had landed amongst a world burst to full bloom, with his senses alive to the fragrant air and the drone of nearby insects and the radiance of the light… he had been dwelling in a cave and was now thrust out of hibernation, awed and amazed, blinking in bedazzlement.

"Gilbert…" Anne began, low voiced and halting. "I am so sorry about my… conduct, before. You were too sick for such an exchange and - "

"Anne," he turned to her, pleased to hear the new strength in his voice. "You mustn't blame yourself for my reaction to anything you said upstairs. You needed to say some things to me, and I needed to hear them, and likewise I trust you understood what I was saying, too. It wasn't easy… on either of us. But we've both said our piece now. I don't want to have us going over old ground till we fall down, exhausted. _Especially_ now."

"No…" she murmured, eyes downcast. "Nor I."

He watched those slim, pale fingers trace a worried path along the arm of the chair, before grasping her other hand, her fingers kneading one another in an agitation he didn't know if he'd ever quite noted in her before.

"So I suggest…" here he searched for the words, grinning over the bad metaphor that came too readily. "A clean slate, between us."

Her head came up at this, and he could have wagered on the play of emotions he now saw across her lovely, expressive face, ending with a chagrined quirk of her shell-pink lips. "A _clean slate_ ," she echoed dryly, her eyes brightening.

"Yes. _Slate_. I remember you are familiar with them."

He thought she might have rolled her eyes at this, except she was trying very hard to be on best behaviour, and instead she bit her lower lip mightily, composing herself and her reaction. "Are you suggesting that we… that the past…?"

"Let's start again, Miss Shirley. You asked if we might be friends, and I recall us being excellent friends, once. It's as good a place to begin again as any, don't you think?"

"Oh, Gilbert…" her voice wavered dangerously, before capitulating on a breath that became trapped between a sob and a sigh. "I would love that!"

"Well then, we must shake on it. Though I will save you the unpleasantness of our schoolboy vows, which was to spit into our palms and _then_ shake."

"Are you determined to undermine this moment for me?" she protested, though her lips unsuccessfully fought their drift upwards.

"Indeed not. Shake on our friendship, then, Miss Shirley."

There had been many times he had taken her lily white hand, but none that might replace the dread memory of the desperate grasp of his large brown hand taking hers in the Patty's Place orchard, unwilling to let go and holding on much too tightly, as if knowing before he had even begun that she was there under duress. Now he extended his and she met it; offer and acceptance, and the old bolt of electricity passed through him again at her touch. But there was something _more_ , today… her smile was wide and her eyes almost emerald in the strong summer sun, and the brilliance of her joyful reaction was startling, and he would have staggered backwards at it if he hadn't been seated in the first place.

 _Yes, being just friends with her was going to be as difficult as it had ever been,_ he sighed to himself, but then remembered how this morning she had been still engaged to Roy, as far as he had known, and lost to him forever, friend or otherwise.

"So tell me all the gossip now, my friend Miss Anne, for I have been rather starved of it these few weeks. You said you were with the Irvings at the start of the summer?"

This was all the encouragement required for her to launch into a fond and detailed description of the weeks at Echo Lodge and of the happiness and new maturity of its occupants, particularly Charlotta the Fourth, now _a very grown-up young lady,_ and Paul, now of a manly haircut and of interests that leaned more towards _football than fairies,_ *** though his kindred-spiritness with Anne remained.

"Young Irving cut his curls, did he?" Gilbert found himself rifling through his own, mock-frowning. "I might have to follow suit, if anyone is going to treat me seriously at all at medical school."

"Don't you _dare,_ Gilbert Blythe!" Anne almost launched herself at him with a girlish squeal. "Or you'll have me and your mother both, hog-tying you to this chair till September!"

Her amazing, affronted reaction had him chuckling merrily. "Well, what am I meant to do with this wild thatch then, Miss Shirley, when I'm not yet well enough for the barber and my mother doesn't quite trust herself with the job?"

" _I'll_ cut it, then," her voice caught on his laughing gaze, and her grey-green eyes strayed to the follicles in question. "I always do Davy's and trim Dora's, and even did Matthew's for a time. I trust you can sit still at _least_ as well as Davy." Her eyes drifted back down to his, and the tease in them made his tired, beleaguered heart beat queerly, but even more extraordinary was the flush that came to Anne's cheeks at his own perusal, which was a startling new development.

"I might have to hold you to that," he offered, voice pitched so low it might have emerged from his belly.

"Yes, do," Anne answered, throatily.

They moved on to the weddings he had also missed – Jane and Phil's respectively – and he listened to Anne's generous assessment of Jane's _kind and good-hearted_ millionaire as he _carried her off in a blaze of splendour_ and then her gushing tribute to Philippa's _dainty fairy of a bride_ and Jo's matching _radiant happiness._ **** Gilbert searched Anne's face for any misgivings regarding her own now marriage-less state and found none, and was undecided if this was reassuring or not.

Anne's face softened by several degrees when in contemplation of the new parents, however, and of Diana's loveliness as a new mother, which she was of the opinion had utterly transformed her.

"Well, Fred is as pleased as punch, I saw that," Gilbert added with a smile. "Naturally I won't be able to visit them for a while, so you'll have to give me your assessment on whom Fred Jr takes after."

"I found him… very much like his father," Anne concluded after several beats.

"Oh no! That's not much of a recommendation!" Gilbert smirked.

" _Gilbert!_ "

"By his _own_ admission Fred is hoping the Barry side will come to the fore," he added unrepentantly, grinning wider.

"Well… he _could_ take after Diana around the mouth…" Anne offered in uneasy diplomacy, which only made her companion laugh delightedly to himself.

"It's alright for you, Mr Blythe!" Anne now chuckled alongside him. " _You_ will be assured of your children's beauty, unlike the rest of us!"

" _My_ children?" his sudden strangled clarification stopped them both in their tracks. Anne slowly came to sense exactly what she had said in her off-the-cuff remark, eyes widening in aghast fashion, coloring profusely.

Gilbert felt his heart measure the seconds, as he looked at Anne and Anne looked at him. Of course, in younger days they had often talked of the concept of children whilst still being children themselves; a trading tease to imagine which annoying traits their own respective progeny would be shackled with. _His_ curls; _her_ hue… _his_ teasing; _her_ temper… but of course, in his own mind, the concept of children had always come with a definite pronoun… not his, not hers, but _theirs._

The Anne of times past would have laughed off her gaffe and moved on, or said something to smilingly undercut the unexpected compliment to him, but _this_ Anne before him was baffling woman and not mercurial girl, and she now excused herself with flustered thoughts of letting him rest and getting on home, and quickly rose to take in the tea tray back to the kitchen.

Gilbert sat, trying to puzzle out this change in her. It was true, they were not children now… they had friends married and with children themselves, and the prospect of it carried as if on the air for all the others… the Blakes and Mr and Mrs Inglis and all the myriad couples they were yet to hear about. Did Anne in that moment not regret Roy, but what he could have given her? Her own dark haired, dark eyed, melancholy child with poetry in his soul, as in hers?

His own hazel eyes drew back to her face as Anne re-emerged, and he wanted to question her in this but his questions were not those of a mere friend, and had no place in the careful new ground they were forging. Moments ago he had wanted to till the soil with the seeds of his new hope regarding her, but now he sat back in frustration, annoyed with himself for wanting more still when he had regained so much already.

His father would round the bend any minute, and so too his mother would return, and yet he could find no appropriate words for her in the measure of time left to them to encompass this momentous day. The sun shone in cheerful affront as he frowned, and Anne's thoughts immediately returned to the worst.

"Gilbert? Are you feeling unwell again?"

"No, Anne," he managed a smile. "Only contemplating the quiet here once you leave."

Her auburn brows drew together in response, and she strove for a lightness in the air between them again.

"I would have thought a little quiet for you would be a relief!"

"I've had too _much_ quiet, Anne. I may have not always coped with the _noise_ of today and all it has represented, but at least it made me feel _alive_ again."

It was an unfair observation to land at her feet, this dread fear of his that the silence of the night would return to swallow him.

"Are you afraid to be alone, now?" she asked tremulously.

He felt his body tighten around his response, wanting to protect her from his answer; to give her the denial that would be easier, and not have to be explained.

"Yes…" he breathed instead, his chest hurting as if the admission had fought through bone and sinew to escape from him.

"I was, too…" she whispered. "I was afraid to be in a world where you were not, Gil."

He turned his eyes to hers, and everything he had previously known vanished on the summer breeze, as ether. There did not exist anything but the stone in his throat, refusing to budge; or the pained pulsating of his heart; or the breath lodged heavy and tight in his chest. There was nothing but him staring at Anne, and hearing her words, and truly believing …

… _She cared… she cared… she cared…_

He could not reflect accurately on the timeline of events after that, except Anne collapsed, suddenly, into a sob, and he had his arms around her, and her own arms were clinging to his neck, and her tears were hot and salty against his shirt, and her heaving breaths shuddered against him, and she repeated _I nearly lost you… I nearly lost you… I nearly lost you…_ as an inconsolable incantation; a stunning, stupefying spell.

He drew back from her, not sure if the moment actually existed in anything but his mind… except the feel of her was so real, and he wouldn't ever dare to imagine the look she gave him, as he brought his long fingers to her tears, seized by both wretchedness to see her cry and wonder that it was over _him._

He fumbled, belatedly, for his hankerchief, but Anne gave a sad little laugh and extracted something from the pocket of her skirt, waving it as a white flag.

"Your _father's,"_ she explained, and he saw with consternation that it was already damp as she mopped her new tears.

"You've been practising?" he joked, badly, but the hazel eyes trained on her were shadowed by his concern.

"It might be the only thing I'm good for, lately," she shrugged, rolling her eyes.

"Well, Anne-girl, don't forget the plum puffs," he smiled down at her, reaching for her hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

She gave a chagrined smile, her eyes enormous on his, and he didn't trust himself to speak further.

He tore his eyes away from hers at his father's approaching whistle, and released her hand, like a bashful schoolboy, before John Blythe might notice it. But Ella Blythe, coming on foot from the other direction from where young Ralph Andrews had dropped her, certainly _did_ notice it, and noticed how her son had embraced Anne Shirley, and how he stared and stared at her now, as he had once never dared to do, and how Anne Shirley blushed under his gaze, as she had never before cared to.

"I'll come tomorrow, Gil," Anne murmured to him as they were surrounded by his parents suddenly on all sides. "With _scissors_ ," she added, with a careful smile.

"A threat or a promise, Miss Shirley?" his eyes drank hers.

"It depends how well behaved you are," she replied, recovering her composure, her arch smile fading quickly. "And you are _not_ alone, Gil… we are all here with you," she whispered up to him, her eyes flashing with fervour.

"I believe it…" he gulped, as much for himself as for her.

* * *

Much later, as the sunset faded slowly against the horizon, Gilbert stood at his bedroom window, a letter in his hand. And here he was, thinking that this day could not be any _more_ extraordinary…

 _Patterson Street_

 _Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

 _Dearest Gilbert,_

 _The last thing I wanted to do in my first letter to you as a respectable married woman – and a minister's wife no less! – was to begin this with an admonishment, but I feel I cannot help myself. Quite simply, you have caused dear Jo and I the worst twenty four hours of worry in our young and in my case, carefree lives, and we would most likely never forgive you, except we are both so overly fond of you._

 _There – I have that off my chest, and now will go about explaining myself, clearly if not always rationally, with your patient, bemused smile in my mind's eye._

 _We were not installed here in Patterson Street three days after our honeymoon tour through the land of Evangeline_ **** _before I had to turn my thoughts to the mountainous pile of correspondence relating to thank yous and belated letters of congratulations for the wedding – and let me tell you, with all Mother's guests and joint relations, that pile looks like the highest peak of the Pyrenees - and quickly sorting the pile I happened upon a pretty little note waiting for me from Mrs Diana Wright. I don't see why all the friends of you and Anne should not also become my own, since I had already collected Pris and Stella on my travels, though you can keep Charlie Sloane it has to be said. At any rate having heard from Anne herself that she had been safely delivered of young Fred Jr, I had written Diana, whom I have heard so much about, with congratulations for Anne to pass on, alongside some of Mother's knitted bootees. She had then written back, as ladies are wont to do, with congratulations to Jo and I, on the occasion of our most glorious wedding. But then – oh Gil! – she had added a terrible postscript, in which she had learned you had become dangerously unwell, struck down with typhoid, and we could scarcely believe it._

 _Well, you can imagine at that stage I rushed into Jo, and then together we went through our mountainous pile, but found nothing new from Anne or anyone else, as to properly explain this news, and had begun to go a bit demented. I was reduced to having Jo compose telegrams of enquiry to Anne and Diana both (as I was hardly capable – what a rock he is!) and he was on the cusp of leaving for the post office when the afternoon post carried a letter from Anne. Well, you can imagine I grasped for it as for a life preserver, and had to have Jo read it back aloud I was so incapable of making it out. She had sent it two days ago, and let me tell you, it contained the most barely comprehensible ramblings about storms and vigils and guilt and bargains with Our Father himself as to make us think_ _SHE_ _had been the one in a delirium, but the upshot was that apparently you had nearly died but had been miraculously spared, and upon hearing this I nearly made some agreements with Him myself, along the lines of never complaining about anything ever again._

 _Oh, Gilbert! Honey, we are both so very sorry for this terrible recent turn of events. I daresay Jo will be writing his own letter to you in this regard, for we have both been very shaken by it all, having only been saying to ourselves how nice it will be to have at least one of our Redmond friends still with us in Kingsport after the summer, and the clever Cooper Prize winner at that, not knowing all the struggles you have faced whilst I have been traipsing with Jo around Nova Scotia and changing my mind three times about the new curtains for the parlour. Infact, I am only able to have this missive to you make any sense at all because Jo insisted I sleep on my reply, and now I have only just this morning received a very apologetic follow up from Diana, in which she assures me in very reasonable, grateful tones that you are indeed on the mend, and her Fred himself had seen you with his own eyes, and that there is the hope you may even eventually be well enough to start your medical studies as intended._

 _Gil, I am going to say the next part now before I lose my nerve or before Jo convinces me I am not to meddle in your love life, being as you almost died and have been through quite enough already, except for an honest desire to help and to lay some of my own regrets at your door._

 _Firstly, I don't know if you have even heard this yourself, being occupied with more elemental matters of late, but Anne is NOT engaged to Roy Gardner. I saw her come in after his proposal myself, the night after the Convocation dance, fully expecting to fling my flurries of congratulations at her, only to have her remark that she had refused him, that she did not love him, and that she didn't believe he belonged in her life._

 _Well, you can imagine my astonishment. I certainly understood it to be a foregone conclusion – all of Redmond did, I have no need to remind you – and I felt most sorry for Roy, who had fulfilled all his obligations perfectly. And there's the rub, and it's what I believe Anne saw, belatedly, for herself – that sometimes the girlhood ideal is actually not what you want or need at all. Or, more accurately, that your ideal changes. I had Alec and Alonzo waiting on me for years, and it only took me ten seconds after meeting Jo to realise how wrong I had been in everything. I could have gone along marrying either of them not knowing that, till it happened to me. And so it happened to Anne, too._

 _So I need to emphasise, Gilbert, that there IS no Roy any longer. Anne had been presented with her dark eyed ideal, as she remarked to me, and had thrown him off. So what will you make of THAT? We also hear of Roy squiring about some young lady in his circle already, so I don't think his heart was broken. But forgive me, Gil, my presumptuousness, but I think YOURS was._

 _You see, I was there with Anne after you had proposed to her, too, oh years ago now, and you may have been well pleased with me for how I railed at her learning that she had refused you. For no one ever loved her or knew her as well as you did, not even Roy, and we all saw it. I don't think she fully appreciated what she had in you until she had lost it, for things were never the same again, were they? Really, how can they be? Anne might have wished to go on being friends and I know you tried valiantly for a time, and I even tried to chat with you when you visited to help you along, but it wasn't the same. And frankly, Anne wasn't the same, I see that now. But there is a real stubbornness in you both, and so when she met Roy there just happened to be Christine and everyone had moved on gamely, or so it appeared._

 _Well, goodness, Gilbert, knock me down with a feather when I found out that the rumours of your anticipated engagement to Christine Stuart – that I myself had helped along, quite innocently and now regretfully – were not only false, but that the girl can hardly accept YOU when she's already taken! Gilbert, what on earth were you thinking, to have everyone believe you were involved with her? Well, of course, shamefully, I know what you were thinking, for I once thought the same about Alec and Alonzo – that it is better to have someone on your arm than no one at all. So with Christine on your arm you could better face up to Anne and Roy. And that's fine, I understand, except Anne might have realised she actually loved YOU much sooner if she hadn't been so busy trying to convince everyone – including herself – that she was so happy as she was._

 _Yes, I hope you've sat up in your sickbed to take notice of THAT, Gilbert Blythe – I think ANNE LOVES YOU. I think she perhaps always has, but didn't recognise it for what it was, because it never looked like she imagined it would. Did she ever tell you her thoughts about seeing a diamond for the first time when she was a girl? She thought a diamond should look like an amethyst, the silly thing, all purple and lovely and glimmering, and was so disappointed at the difference between imagination and reality that she cried! Well, Gilbert, I was never much good with metaphors and gilded prose – I always left that to Anne herself - but you didn't look like what a diamond should be, to her. And now she's grown a little and understands herself better and can recognise things - and people - for what they are. And so, she loves you, just as you are. I'm convinced of this. That mad letter of hers where she thought she might have lost you helped convince me of this. And even if I'm wrong and she doesn't quite, yet, then there is the greatest potential that she WILL. And if you still love her, as I believe you do, then you owe it to yourself to at least try. TRY AGAIN with her, Gilbert. Please. For both your sakes. She might hide behind the idea of just friends, or believe you are still involved with Christine, and she will be scared and unsure and self protective. You know her, even better than I. But you are two of my favourite people in the world, and nothing prepared me so much for loving Jo as seeing you and Anne together in the early days, and to see what a couple who truly belonged together really looked like._

 _I must end this and get it off for you, before I naturally change my mind about it._

 _Jo and I send all our love and prayers to you, Gil. Good luck. Get well._

 _Love,_

 _Phil_

* * *

As the darkness filled the room, Gilbert prepared for sleep with the letter tucked into his bedside table, and the apple tree cutting resting upon it; twin talismans against all his old doubts.

He had faltered many times in his belief today of what he was hearing and seeing… and _feeling._

But not now.

He had the memory of Anne in his arms; her tears wet against his collar; her admission made from her own lips… _I nearly lost you._

Two years ago he had rushed in as fools did, but experience had made him wary, and illness had made him wise.

Anne _didn't_ love Roy. But according to Phil's words, she might love _him. Could_ it be possible, when Anne herself had once sworn it could never be?

Anne might not quite believe it herself, yet… but he had the rest of the summer to learn her heart, and to gently, carefully, faithfully, show her his own.

Gilbert slept peacefully, and did not worry about the shadows coming for him, for his new belief - in Anne, in _himself_ \- helped banish them.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 37)

**Jane Austen _Pride and Prejudice_ (Ch 6)

*** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 40)

**** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 39)


	7. Chapter 7 Blossoming

**Author's Note:**

Well, that wasn't exactly a short time between postings, was it? I am so sorry about that. Whatever happened to this entire story posted within a fortnight? Ah, well, I hope you'll forgive me and allow this story a little longer to germinate and blossom… I am thinking twelve or thirteen chapters now, with two (even three) chapters _definitely_ happening post engagement… because sticking to canon is driving me _crazy,_ as others before me have found, though it is a delightful ride, and I can't tell you how much fun I am having writing this, and how gratified I am by your generous interest in it. Thank you also for your fabulous response to Phil's letter - that in particular was so enjoyable to take a stab at!

Thank you also to many comments made and pm's wishing me well; they were so lovely to receive and were genuinely thrilling. Honestly, we have such a lovely community here. It is brilliant to be a part of it.

Thank you again to new followers of this and my other stories, including some very heartening reviews lately, which have really helped bolster me. I am notoriously late in thanking people for reviews and reviewing in kind, and I again will blather my apologies, but I will get to every one of you in the end.

Dedications are sometimes tricky things, but I really wanted to acknowledge guest reviewer _**wow,**_ who is a lovely supporter of this and many other stories on this site, and also to dedicate this chapter to _**mavors4986,**_ and she will definitely know why!

And so, onwards we go… did someone say something about a hair cut?

With love,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 **Blossoming**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

"I _am_ glad Gilbert didn't die, of course," Davy explained the following day at the kitchen table, shoving improbably large forkfuls of pie into his mouth between pronouncements, "but I can't say I want him to get better too quickly though. Or else you'll be off wandering Avonlea again with him, Anne, and we'll be back to our ordinary breakfasts."

"The cheek of you, young Master Keith!" Rachel admonished as Marilla, pouring tea, rolled her eyes to the heavens, casting a sideways look at Anne who had paused delicately before her own small forkful, face turning pink. "And at any rate," Rachel continued with enthusiasm, "I hardly think Anne and Gilbert will be off _wandering Avonlea_ as they used to. They are a woman and man, both. It wouldn't be proper."

" _Or_ anticipated," Marilla quickly rescued, "considering Gilbert Blythe is hardly out of his sickbed, and still has a long road ahead of him. So please be mindful of _that,_ Davy, as you enjoy your own good health mucking out the barn after breakfast."

"Aww, Marilla! I promised some of the boys I'd be off fishing today, now that you're not worried about Anne no more…"

"The only fishing rod you'll be seeing is the one paddling your behind!" Rachel interjected, whilst Anne leapt to cover other less fraught subjects, such as suggesting to Dora they go into town the next day to choose material for a new dress for her.

Davy finished his meal in affronted silence, wondering, not for the first time, what was so scandalous about repeating things he'd heard plain as day from Marilla's or Mrs Rachel's own lips, sighing as he walked out the back door towards the barn with the general air of one heading for the gallows. As Dora drifted quietly upstairs Anne was left with the kind but knowing looks of the older ladies, answering Rachel's queries as to Gilbert's welfare with as composed a countenance as she could muster.

"Well, I'm off to write some letters, then," Rachel smiled, giving Anne's arm a quick squeeze. "Don't forget those preserves I've set aside for the Blythes, Anne; I'll call myself in a day or two, when the dust settles. Please give Gilbert my very best."

"Thank you, Rachel. Absolutely I will."

Eventually, it was just Marilla and Anne with the breakfast dishes, washing and drying respectively with the easy air of long companionship, enjoying the unaccustomed quiet of the always busy house.

"So it was a good day in the end?" Marilla ventured carefully, draining the sink and wiping down the bench, though her eyes were trained on the redhaired woman – _girl_ , sadly, no longer – as she did so, remembering the thoughtful look on her face as she had floated down from the Blythe's buggy and into the house late the previous afternoon.

"Yes, Marilla…" Anne admitted wonderingly, giving a smile as if surprised by her own words. "Not the _easiest_ day… perhaps it started as a _Jonah_ day… but in the end… one of the very best, I think."

Marilla gave shrewd smile at this. "So I take it Gilbert is pleased enough to have your company, despite your earlier misgivings?"

"Well, yes… that is, if you can spare me. I don't want to neglect you or the twins or – "

"Anne, you must go where you are needed. And _Gilbert_ needs you."

Anne found herself grinning and blushing at this in equal measure. "Actually, what he _really_ needs is a haircut! I was wondering if I could take the good dressmaking scissors with me today? If you won't miss them."

Marilla's eyes were wide. "Anne, do you intend to tackle the infamous curly Blythe crown? We really don't want to court any more disaster at present."

"Oh, Marilla, don't make me nervous now! I've promised Gilbert. His mother will probably be watching my every move!"

 _I have a feeling she already is…_ Marilla said to herself, watching her lovely girl, grown lovelier just in the last transformative day, as she bustled about with her basket, tucking the scissors in carefully and packing her pastries and preserves around them.

Anne set off jauntily down the well-worn path, towards the lane and Blythe farm, stopping to greet every wildflower on her route, her happy hum carried on the warm, soft breeze all the way to Marilla watching her fondly by the front door.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert promised himself he would not look for her; in this he was aided by the distraction of another visit from Fred, coinciding with the dubious charms of Charlie who joined them, and as two of his oldest friends chatted and shared their news and plans all he could think of was the feel of Anne in his arms, and the way she had clung to him as if her own life depended on it, let alone his. _She loves you…_ Phil Blake had determined, and it was so strange to have his heart turned towards hope and faith and not defeat and despair… he felt he was divesting himself of years of pained uncertainty as much as he was throwing off the last traces of his illness; belief and body born anew.

He farewelled the men and not ten minutes later saw Anne approach, and nearly fell over himself to greet her; unstable on long legs grown coltish through inaction; he felt a new awkwardness about his body, bruised and battered as it was, and had to remind himself of his father's own words to him that morning, having noted the way Gilbert had forced himself up and out of bed and into the day with a decided lack of patience; _slow… steady… sure…_ he was urged. It was perhaps his father's favourite mantra around the farm and about life generally, applied to everything from recalcitrant livestock to zealous bank managers to, on occasion and with a knowing smile, his own wife.

Gilbert himself was not unused to the idea of patience; care and consideration were watchwords seared on his soul, particularly when it came to Anne. He longed to fling the circumspect aside and embrace the possibility and potential behind the luminous smile with which she greeted him, and the electric exchange of skin upon skin as their hands met when he relieved her of the burden of her basket, walking with her back towards the house.

"It's lovely to see you properly up and about, Gil," she offered.

"It's lovely to _be_ properly up and about," he grinned. "And I hope you noticed _shoes_ today, Miss Shirley, in your honour."

"I did indeed," she gave a tinkling laugh. "I was wondering what may have accounted for your extra inch or so. Though that _could_ be the hair," she darted a sly glance to him, smiling as a stray gust of wind, in unfair accord with such teasing, danced his too-long curls about frenetically, obscuring his vision.

"Well, I hope you came prepared on _that_ score, Anne," he brushed the hair from his eyes in frustration.

"I come well armed, I assure you, Mr Blythe," she answered leadingly, in a way that was so amazingly, enticingly suggestive it made him almost trip over his newly shod feet.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne had grievously underestimated the trepidatious moment she stood behind Gilbert, seated in one of the high backed dining room chairs carried out onto the verandah, Marilla's good scissors heavy in her hand. If she failed in this mission she didn't know how she might face Mrs Blythe on her return with Mr Blythe from town, with the news of having butchered Gilbert's curls; yet another in a long, embarrassing line of gaffes and follies that would follow her forever.

It was not that she doubted her basic proficiency in this skill so much as the unexpected and disorientating difficulty of Gilbert's close proximity; of his clean-apple scent; of his still-broad shoulders only just shielded by the towel; of her view looking down to chest and long fingers tapping thighs; or else straight ahead to ears and neck and that dark, fetching, wild expanse of hair. There was no question that it must be done and that she had promised to do it; _If it were done… then 'twere well it were done quickly…_ * she grimaced to herself, for to back out now would make her appear idiotic in the extreme, and also yet another way, innocuous though it might be, in which she would have let him down.

Anne breathed out slowly. To _cut_ his hair, of course, meant she had to _touch_ it.

"Is everything alright, Anne?" Gilbert questioned, obviously puzzled by the general lack of activity.

"Of course…" Anne bit her lip.

Gilbert turned slowly in his seat, dark brows raised, hazel eyes warm with humour and lit by the summer sun, lips pausing midway between smile and smirk.

"You don't have to do this you know, Anne. I don't want you to feel… uncomfortable."

"Who's uncomfortable?" she answered breezily, bold smile flashing, a hand on his shoulder encouraging him to face away from her again. "Alright then, Mr Blythe. Incline your head forward and hold still."

Picking up a comb, she dipped it into a spare jam jar of water and began to address the hair at his nape, following the path previously taken, tidying from back of ear across neck and around the other side, sharpening the line and bending down to ensure a ruler would not find fault with it. _There. That looked fine,_ she grinned to herself. _I will manage this perfectly well._

And then…

Her fingers reached out, tentatively, to test the length of his hair, threading her fingers through the top curls, pulling one stubborn, resistant brown curl to full length before watching it spring back into shape. _Oh, goodness…_

The feel of Gilbert's curls beneath her fingers was utterly beguiling… strong but not wiry, thick but not dense, texture soft but not too soft… She had not had much cause to meditate on what this would feel like, before, and trying to define the sensation of it now was quite beyond her. All she knew was that she wanted to lose her fingers in his hair forever. Or at least for the space of the afternoon.

Gilbert shifted imperceptibly in his seat and emitted a long, soft sigh, relaxing his shoulders and leaning, without perhaps realising it, into her hand. How her fingers longed to stray from hair to face, to stroke his cheek, to smooth his brow, to trace his lips. The wanton thoughts were so terrifying and new; she had never felt these stirrings before, and they were _wondrous strange._ **Anne tried to rein herself in by bleak thoughts of Roy, musing whether she had ever felt anything akin to this in all her time with him, but could only remember her pleased response to his deep, velvety voice, and assorted favourable impressions of his general demeanour growing vaguer and more indistinct by the day.

But here was Gilbert… potent and _real_ … still recovering and yet already radiating a handsomeness and… and… _maleness._ She had never been _unaware_ of his physical charms, and yet… whilst not immune to them, she had felt herself a step removed from his attractiveness… Gil her schoolmate, her nemesis, her chum… she had _never_ felt this way around _that_ incarnation of him. Even at Redmond his presence had never tugged at something so at the very core of her as it did now… something within her that might unravel at any moment, taking any peace and equilibrium she still possessed with it. Was _this_ attraction? Was _this_ love? If so, it wasn't at all the songbird serenade of her silly romances. It wasn't an exaltation. It was unsettling and painful and stopped her breath in her chest.

Despite her distraction she had made good work on his hair, trimming his top curls and then down to his sideburns and coming to an unsteady stop in front of him, seeing Gil's eyes closed, noting with satisfaction the dark bruises fading, and the color creeping back into his cheeks.

"Keep your eyes closed, Gil," she whispered, and he seemed to start at this, but obeyed without demur, hands folded in his lap and features recomposing themselves. She trimmed the tresses above his brow, having to lean into him startlingly close, tantalising inches from him, near enough to note the muscle working overtime in his cheek, dimples softened by his present seriousness. Gently she blew away the stray wisps of hair; dark dandelion tuffs carried off on the breeze, and checked his profile either side, looking for any little faults and only noting his perfection.

"There…" she offered, low-voiced. "Decent again."

His eyes snapped open; hazel eyes grown so dark that the depth of them and the… the… _blaze_ in them so startled her that she stepped backwards too quickly, awkwardly colliding with his large feet in large shoes, and as she stumbled, scissors clattering to the floor, Gilbert reached a long hand out to her, grasping her arm and reeling her back into him, the motion now pitching her forward in ungainly sprawl… straight into his lap.

"Well, now, Anne… it's nice to be able to sweep a girl off her feet, but that's not _quite_ how I imagined it!" he drawled, his ready humour not quite masking the throaty throb of his voice.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert thought he would never have considered a hair cut to be one of the most erotic experiences of his life to date, but there it was.

When Anne began touching his _hair_ he could have moaned aloud at the pleasure of it. His sleeping senses and pulse points – _all_ of them, God help him – burst to life and the imaginings that had sustained him through long, lonely hours took on a sudden, sensational, strumming reality.

He had never felt so _alive_.

He had to keep his eyes closed from then on, lest he betray himself entirely, as she made quick progress through his unruly mop and the sharp, cool steel was nothing to the fire of her fingers on his flesh.

By the time Anne was addressing the hair above his brow he had to physically restrain himself from snaking a hand to her waist and drawing her against him. Her scent was intoxicating; her sweet, cool breath maddening. And then, her eyes… when he opened his to meet her surprised gaze, the green in them was an emerald furnace, burning more fiercely the more he stared at her.

And then her stumble, and her delightful fall.

There seemed long moments whilst Anne sat across his knees in shocked immobility, staring up at him, breath quickening and lily white hand against his chest. And then she scrambled off him, mumbling with mortified incoherence, and he recognised her retreat, as of old, but for reasons he dared think very different to the past. Where once she might have moved from him with perplexing self possession, now she shook and stammered, skittish and crimson-cheeked, filling the air with myriad excuses as to why, regretfully, she couldn't stay. He could read her well – Phil was right on that score – and he felt he could interpret her actions here. She was not running from him but running from the reality of their rightness together, reinforced just now, and if the knowledge was coming to her as it had come to him, years ago, then it was a wave swamping her, and he needed to offer her a raft.

"I _have_ taken up too much of your time again, Miss Shirley," he offered, thoughtfully. "It will be so much easier when I can come and see _you._ "

"Don't get me wrong… I love to see you, Gil!" Anne protested miserably. "It's been wonderful to come here again. It's only that… that…"

"You have other commitments, Anne," he prodded, gently.

"I guess…" she sighed, swallowing.

"Thank you very much for the hair cut."

"You're welcome, Gil. Except… you haven't even seen it! Shall I fetch a mirror? You might not thank me too heartily when you do."

"I trust you, Anne," he declared with a soft smile.

This made her pause, and the pause steadied her. Her eyes, still green edged with grey, searched his, as if his gaze alone could answer silent questions their recent time together was prompting her to ask. He wished he could lay all his explanations at her feet, to save her the further pain of examining the questions herself, but if he knew anything about Anne at all he knew she would not be told what she was thinking and feeling, but had to puzzle out the answers on her own.

 _Slow… steady… sure…_ His father was a genius. He would help Anne get through this; to break through the barrier of years of denial, to come out the other side of it, ready to love him.

They tidied around his barber's perch, Anne sweeping his hair off the floorboards of the verandah, joking as to whether she should save some sacrificed half curls for his mother, and then stopping abruptly for a moment as if she had the idea to do such a thing for herself. Gilbert meanwhile retrieved the scissors, packing them carefully in the checked cloth and depositing them securely in her basket. He brushed himself off, rubbing his neck as if feeling some hair had fallen down below his collar, and fighting the urge to remove his shirt and shake it out – that indeed would have heralded a startling new level of intimacy between them best currently left to his imagination.

"I'll walk you to the gate, Anne," he smiled gently, and he could see her take a visible breath. "You mentioned a few things you might do tomorrow?"

They gathered her basket and left to walk as far as the Blythe gate; he felt he could probably tackle the journey all the way to Green Gables, but he would not force his presence on her. Anne needed time to mull this over, and perhaps a little absence would make her heart grow ever fonder… and as she began to recount her plans for a day with Dora and a visit to the Wrights she relaxed back into herself, even able to smile genuinely as he bid her farewell with a cheeky, courtly bow.

 _Slow… steady… sure…_ He was a little proud of himself, and his father would certainly be.

XXXXX

"Anne gone so soon? Is everything alright, son?" John Blythe questioned upon his parents' return from town, as Gilbert helped him unload supplies from the store, whilst his mother, after staring at his hair and patting it affectionately, began to turn her thoughts to tea.

"Actually… never better, Dad. I just felt Anne needed a little… space. I'm trying to remember your advice. Slow, steady, sure."

"And it's working?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well, that is a very good thing. Though the advice was for _you_ as for anyone," his father reminded, clapping him on the back. "And you need a rest from your visitors too, Gil. I can't say I mind a bit of quiet, and to feel that it's just we three again, for a while."

"Should we do something special together tomorrow, Dad? You and Ma and I? We've been a bit robbed of time together and – "

"We wouldn't want to take you away from your friends, Gil," his father interrupted, his tone careful. "Some of them… well, you might not see them again for a very long time, once you're fit for your studies."

Gilbert colored faintly at the implication of friends far and wide, including one in particular, scheduled to leave for Summerside. "Dad, you and Ma are as important to me as anyone. I hope you know that."

"Of course we do. But if there's a choice to be made… well, we'd be thrown over in a second. And quite right, too," a very Blythe grin flashed at him.

"Well… Anne is spending the day tomorrow with Dora, and visiting Diana Wright, so…"

"Ah! So the truth comes out!" John guffawed.

"Dad! Well, alright! But I have good intentions and want to turn them towards you and Ma as well, you know! Speaking of _good intentions_ …" he winced at the clumsy segue. "Can I ask you about when you were courting Ma? How you went about it, and how you… well, convinced her that… well… that you wanted to marry her?"

They were leading the horse with feed supplies back towards the barn, but his father stopped in surprise at the question, giving a barking laugh.

"How did I court your mother? _Carefully._ "

"She was that hard to win over?" Gilbert asked, bemused.

"So much so that I had to ask her twice."

He felt his brows fly upwards in astonishment. "Dad! You're kidding me! Why haven't you ever told me this before?"

John Blythe stroked their horse thoughtfully, taking a moment before he looked Gilbert dead in the eye.

"Well… you perhaps haven't had the need to hear it, son. Until now."

Gilbert swallowed at the not-so hidden meaning. "What happened?"

"Put simply, I rushed her. She wasn't ready."

"Wow. So it's a Blythe trait, then," Gilbert huffed, frowning as he followed his father into the barn.

They spent a quiet half an hour seeing to the horse, organising feed and talking over plans for the farm for the coming months. His father, uncharacteristically, continued to dart concerned glances at him, until Gilbert was forced to ask him what the matter was.

"It's just something you said, son. When I was speaking about your mother and I before. Were you referring to your _own_ proposal, Gil? To Anne?"

"You know about it?" he paled in the dim light of their surrounds.

"We made an educated guess, which you later, er, confirmed."

"When I was delirious?"

"Yes, son. Sorry."

Gilbert sighed, slumping onto a hay bale. "Just as well I don't have too many secrets, then."

His father wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve, shuffling across to seat himself beside him. "Want to tell me about it?"

Gilbert rubbed a dejected hand down his lean face. "It happened during second year. I could… I could see Anne avoiding me, drifting away from me… I loved her and I… I tried to show her, but she didn't want to move forward in that way… I could see I was losing her, so I panicked. I'd been her best friend, and I ruined it, and then I really _did_ lose her."

His father was silent for a long moment, leaning over his knees, large work-roughed hands steepled together. "Your mother and I figured as much. We're so sorry for your hurt, Gil. Sorry for a lot of things."

"None of it was your fault, Dad. I acted rashly, only thinking of myself."

"And Anne?"

He blew out a long breath. "She found someone whom I thought… whom _everyone_ thought… was her dream come true… Handsome, rich, cultured. I had to hear talk of their imminent engagement for _two years…_ and then, I wake from the fever, and she's not engaged to him."

"Did she explain to you why?"

"You probably heard most of _that_ conversation the other day," Gilbert rolled his eyes. "She just said she realised she didn't love him. That he didn't – how did she phrase it? – _belong in her life._ "

"That's a pretty resounding _no,_ then."

He gave a chagrined smile. "I guess so."

"And so… now?"

" _Now_ …" he considered carefully, "I'm thinking that… in fact, another friend even wrote to me with the idea that… I should try again, with her."

His father nodded approval. "Far be it from me to throw cold water on _that_ idea, obviously," he gave a knowing chuckle. "And it feels different between you two, this time?"

"Yes… everything feels different about this. Even… well, I know I'm not an objective observer, but… even the way she looks at me."

"I'd go along with that."

"You would, Dad? _Really?_ Sometimes I'm afraid I just see a difference there because I want it so badly."

"No, son, you're definitely not imagining it. The thing is now what you're going to _do_ about it. That is, if Anne is the one you think belongs in _your_ life."

" _Yes,_ he added, with low-voiced fervour. "There's never been anyone else for me. It's just… I'm trying to test the waters with her. With Anne. Not have her afraid of any feelings she may be developing for me. And trying not to be too obvious about my feelings for _her."_

"To be _slow_ and _steady_ is good. That will allow her to be _sure. And_ you. So what will you _do_ differently, this time?"

"How do you mean?"

His father paused, thoughtful. "You said you rushed that time, so now you're not rushing. You said she wasn't ready, last time, so how will you know if she's ready _now_?"

Gilbert blinked rapidly, processing the query. "I… well… we're friends again, and so… just really spending time together, and letting things take their course…"

"Gil, why do you think Anne turned to this other man? This so-called _dream_ man? I'm not talking about his wealth and connections. Anne wouldn't ever set store by that, I know her well enough there. I'm asking you what she saw in _him_ that at the time she couldn't see in _you?_ "

"You mean, apart from the dances and the flowers and the carriage rides and her swooning over some stupid sonnet he composed?" he answered darkly.

"Well, you asked about courting," John Blythe muzzled a smile. "And that sounds like _courting_ to me."

" _I_ took her to dances. _I_ gave her flowers."

"As a suitor?"

"Well, of course not. As a friend." He scowled, the memory still a pained pinprick to his heart. "She didn't _want_ me as a suitor."

"You mean, she couldn't _see_ you as a suitor."

"There's a difference?"

"There's a difference when you've known one another since you were children, Gil. You were the boy who pulled her hair virtually the day you met her. You _eventually_ moved on, thank goodness, and then you became her friend, and her study partner, and her chum, as it were. Her closest chum, to be fair. And then it wasn't her suitor who proposed to her, it was her friend. Can you blame her for saying no?"

His brows drew together in consternation, and he looked down to his own hands, his response sheepish. "Well, of course not, Dad, not when you put it _that_ way…"

"So again, son, my question. What will you do _differently_ now?"

"You're saying I should… _romance_ her? Take her out and woo her under the stars? She'd laugh at me the first second."

" _Would_ she? Or is that what the _old_ Anne would have done?"

"Well…" Gilbert felt himself begin to bluster, feeling stupid for not even having considered this aspect of things before. "Wouldn't it be _false,_ Dad? I want to _give_ her all the romance in the world. Truly I do! She deserves al that and more. But I… well… wouldn't she feel I'm acting out a role? She's known me all this time and I… " _Oh._ He stopped up short, hazel eyes wide. "Oh, I see."

"I'm glad you do, son. It took me a fair while to figure that out for myself."

"So that's what happened? With you and Ma?"

John Blythe let out a long sigh. "We became friends. Real close friends. But I didn't give her time, and she thought I wasn't serious. And that… I was rushing into things, on account of my experiences… _before._ "

"You mean… "Gilbert asked with slight trepidation, "with Miss Cuthbert?"

A look of genuine pain, fast and fleeting, passed across the still-handsome face.

"Yes, Gil. I won't go into it, but… yes. So I had to _show_ your mother I was serious. That I didn't just want to be _her_ chum any longer, because I saw her not just as a friend, but as a… _woman._ And the way to show her was to make her see _me_ as a _man."_

Gilbert felt the color come to his cheeks, ridiculously. "There was a moment today when I… when, as I say, she looked at me differently… she was nervous around me, but a _good_ sort of nervous. But I looked into her eyes, Dad, and… I think it was the first time she'd really seen _me,_ as I am…"

"Well, then, that sounds like you're halfway there."

"I just… it's so frustrating! I _want_ to do all these things with her! I _do_ want to make it romantic. But _our_ kind of romance. Something that's true to us. It's just that I… I'm just getting well again, and I can't do as much yet, and I want to take it slowly with her but we're running out of weeks left in the summer and…"

" _Gilbert._ Son! Slow down!" a large hand found his shoulder. "One day at a time. Anne's making the choice, again and again, to be here with you. She made a choice against that other fellow. I have a feeling she's waiting until you're well, and until _you_ make a choice regarding _her._ Give each other _time,_ Gil. You'll know when it's the right time."

They heard the bell, reminding them that Ella Blythe had afternoon tea waiting for them, and father and son began to head back to the house.

"Thanks for the talk, Dad. I've missed this."

"I have too, son."

There was a quick hug shared, before they re-emerged, blinking in the glare, and the two tall, broad-shouldered figures made identical long, loping shadows in the dazzling afternoon light.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

"I swear he's doubled his weight since you were here last, Anne. He loves a good feed as much as his father does," Diana Wright declared, beaming at her son rocked gently by her best friend.

"Well, he looks wonderful, Diana, and so do you. Motherhood suits you so."

"I don't know about _that_ ," Diana whispered, wrinkling her nose. "There's so much to learn. I'm in constant fear of doing something wrong, especially in front of Mother Wright. Though Fred is a darling. He's mucking in wonderfully."

"And so he _should,_ " Anne laughed quietly, so as not to disturb Fred Jr, sleepy after his feed. The rocking chair in the nursery was a surprisingly relaxing refuge, and being around a baby again was rather enchanting as a visiting adult and not as a fraught, harassed girl with three times the charges to oversee. "Young men need to be set a good example, after all." She paused, smiling down at tiny eyes fluttering closed, passing on greetings from all at Green Gables and then remembering a gift in her little bag. "Oh, and Mrs Lynde sent you over something, Diana. Feel free to fish it out," she indicated her bag with her chin. "It's a little jar of ointment. Her own recommendation. It's meant to be, ah, _soothing_ for, well, for feeding mothers."

Diana held up the little jar to the light in wonder, as if a prospector examining a vein of gold in a rock. "Oh for all her gossiping she is a marvel sometimes, that woman! How was she to know? I've clean run out of the jar Mother gave me before he was born and Little Fred just feeds _all_ the time. The chafing is _awful._ My bosoms haven't received this much attention since our honeymoon."

" _Diana!"_ Anne gave scandalised guffaw. "Honestly, must I remind you you're talking to a sweet, demure spinster here?"

Diana's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Well, _Miss_ Anne, let me tell you, marriage will chase away the _sweet_ and childbirth will well rid you of the _demure."_

Anne tried to smile at the joke, but the effort wavered terribly.

"Anne, darling, what's wrong? I thought you were, well, _settled_ in your decision to refuse Roy Gardner?"

"I was. I _am._ It's… it's not Roy."

"Then what?" Diana persisted, taking a now-sleeping little Fred from Anne's arms and depositing him in his crib, tucking him in carefully and looking lovingly down at his slumbering form. The two women snuck out, leaving the door ajar, and settled downstairs in the kitchen for their tea, not as cosily as in the little sitting room but more conveniently situated for hearing any stray cries. "You told me you were getting on wonderfully with Gilbert, that you were both true friends again, and all was well!" Diana reminded, arranging the biscuits Anne had brought with her. "Though I _am_ so sorry you didn't know how sick he was. I feel so badly. I had no idea you didn't know."

"Please _don't_ feel badly, Diana. Even Marilla presumed I knew."

Diana considered her friend carefully, with grave dark eyes. "It must have been such a shock, Anne. It was to _us,_ and we were getting the updates gradually. I know we haven't had a chance to really talk about it…"

"It _was_ a shock…" Anne repeated, quietly, her own eyes downcast, shuddering at the memory. "The feeling I carried with me, that night, the night of the storm, I really can't properly describe it. I thought maybe it was God punishing me, for having punished _Gilbert_ so _…_ and that I might lose him, and that I might… that I might lose my own reason for living."

" _Anne!"_ Diana gasped, now the one to be shocked.

"Well, could _you_ have gone on, if you'd lost Fred?" Anne demanded sorrowfully.

Diana swallowed her surprise. "That is… that is an impossible question, darling. Mostly I try not to think about it. Gilbert… Ruby… there's so much that, in the end, we can't control. I just pray a lot these days and try to be thankful. And not have _either_ grandmother rub me up the wrong way."

"Oh, darling Diana!" Anne reached out for her soft, plump hand. "How I've missed you! I could have used you in Kingsport with me often enough, that's for sure!"

"I believe you were too busy knocking back suitors," Diana joked dryly, and then noted how her friend's countenance darkened. "But how _are_ you regarding Gilbert? What you were saying before, it… well, it sounded like your feelings for him had changed."

When Anne was suspiciously silent, withdrawing her hand to take too long with her tea, Diana gasped again.

" _Anne Shirley!_ Are you having _feelings_ for Gilbert? _Romantic_ feelings?"

"So-called _romantic_ feelings have gotten me into trouble before, Diana," Anne grumbled. "I thought I was having some sort of Grand Romance with Roy, but underneath, in my heart, it was all just pointless pretending."

Diana measured her response carefully. "Well, I can't say I'm too sorry not to lose you to Mr Gardner and Kingsport, darling…" she ventured, "but you look so changed from how you were before you went to the Irvings. Just brighter and a little more… _alive._ And Fred reports that Gil had a real pep to him yesterday, despite his horrible ordeal. So my question again… _what's_ going _on?_ "

" _I don't know_ …" Anne felt her response gush from her, like a dam bursting its banks. "Except it's wonderful and awful and I was so stupid yesterday and I'm so embarrassed and confused!"

Diana's jaw dropped, if not to the floor, at the very least to the table.

"Oh my goodness, Anne! You're in love with him! You're in _love_ with _Gilbert!"_

Anne paused in her attempt to cover her face with her hands, past all denial now.

"Well don't look so pleased about it, Diana! I'm in _agony!_ "

"Well I _will_ be pleased, Miss Anne! I've only been praying for this moment for the last six years! You're in love with him! With Gilbert! It's wonderful! I can't believe it!"

Anne wished she were in a better frame of mind to enjoy Diana's reaction.

"It's not _wonderful,_ Di! It's a nightmare!"

Dark brows came together. "How so?"

" _Christine Stuart."_

"Who?"

"Only the girl Gilbert's going to marry."

" _What?"_

"Oh she beautiful, Diana! Of _course_ she is! He went around with her at Redmond. She has dark hair and violet eyes and is musical and cultured and, well, she'll probably be plump beyond description by the time she's thirty, but – "

"Anne, I have _no_ idea of whom you talk! Gilbert hasn't mentioned anyone to Fred. And he tells Fred most things, and Fred tells _me_ everything."

"But don't you see, Diana? That's probably what's happened! Gilbert _knows_ Fred would tell you things and so he hasn't told Fred in case it gets back to me. To not hurt my feelings."

Diana rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by such skewed logic. "Anne, I am positively _convinced_ Fred would know if Gil was planning to marry some violet-eyed creature he met at Redmond. And even if he didn't know, then where _is_ she while Gil's been so sick, for goodness' sake?"

"That's what Marilla said…" Anne faltered.

" _Well,_ then. I rest my case, Anne. It wouldn't be the first time you've gotten the wrong end of the stick regarding Gilbert, you know." Diana took a lingering sip of tea, sure of her triumph.

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, Diana Wright."

Diana didn't even attempt to muzzle her smile. "Well, you're getting some of your feistiness back, Miss Anne, so _that's_ a good sign. And can we get back to the _interesting_ part of this conversation? Are you admitting you're _in love_ with _Gilbert?_ "

"How do I _know?_ " Anne bleated. "How did _you_ know, with Fred?"

"It had been coming on for so long with him, I can hardly remember…"

"But surely there was a moment when… when he ceased being a chum, and started being a… a… well, _not_ a chum?" There was a tone of desperation to the query.

"Well, when he first kissed me, I had those issues straightened out fairly quickly."

Anne's agog expression was rather priceless. "Diana! When did _Fred_ ever kiss you before you were engaged? You hardly courted for five minutes before I turned around and found you were going to marry him!"

"I take it Gilbert has never… kissed _you?_ Even before he proposed to you?"

Anne retreated to haughtiness. "You may remember that proposal was not the happiest of occasions, and certainly kissing Gilbert Blythe was the furthest thing from my miserable thoughts! And at any rate _you_ keep changing the subject on me!"

"And _you_ keep _avoiding_ the subject, Anne! Would you kiss him now, kiss Gilbert, if he wanted you to?"

Anne's suddenly crimson face betrayed every recent thought she had had in that direction.

Diana's answering smile was deliciously smug. "Well… perhaps I'd better pass on _that_ information to Fred to tell him. It might circumvent all this drama and _agony._ I know things seem so complicated, Anne, but darling, they don't need to be."

"Di, I don't know how to act around him anymore…"

"Well, you _are_ in love with him, then!" Diana grinned, and then softened her stance at the sight of those wondering, uncertain grey eyes. "Why don't you _tell_ him, Anne? He's waited so long to hear it."

Anne felt her heart lurch in pained hope, before she shoved the feeling back down.

"Di, I… I… aren't you making an awful presumption, regarding Gil's feelings for _me?_ We've only just gotten back to the state of proper friends again, and I couldn't let anything jeopardise that. I _won't_ let anything jeopardise that."

"You think he doesn't love you anymore?" Diana asked quietly.

"Di, haven't you been _listening?_ I broke his heart, and it's a wonder he didn't hate me. But he doesn't, and I'm so grateful. And in the meantime, I have only been _telling_ you he spent two years escorting –"

Diana took a violent bite of biscuit. "Anne, if you say the name of that girl who _no one's_ seen or heard of, I think I might scream, even if it _does_ wake the baby!"

Anne opened and then closed her mouth against further protest. The spectre of Christine Stuart rose before her, just as it had been haunting her otherwise amorously-inclined dreams.

"Right," Diana took another sip of tea and then set it aside firmly. "I am going to ask you some sensible questions, Anne, and you must answer them sensibly. _Do you love Gilbert?_ "

Anne reddened as her hair, but remained steady. "Yes."

"Do you think he realises this?"

"No."

"Are you _certain_ you feel he doesn't love _you?_ "

Here she faltered.

"Anne?" Diana prompted, more gently.

"I _would_ be certain… regarding Chr – that girl he was escorting – and everything. They looked so _right_ together. She's everything I'm not. Except… except… yesterday, when I cut his hair, there was a moment, before I tripped and fell into his lap, when I looked at him, and he looked at me, and it was… it was… as if the world stopped. For a second."

There was a beat of astonished silence.

"Anne, I don't even know what to _do_ with that statement. You _fell_ into his _lap?_ You _cut_ his _hair?_ Honestly, I am beginning to despair of the both of you. I may have to trap you in our cellar together. Just tell me, Anne. What might have happened yesterday, whilst residing in Gilbert's _lap,_ if he knew you loved him?"

Anne gnawed her bottom lip with new ferocity. "I think… I think… he might have kissed me."

"And so, darling, do you honestly think Gil – Gil who we've both known forever - would _really_ go about kissing a girl _he_ didn't love?"

Those grey eyes widened in astonished understanding. Anne was left to ponder this as Fred Jr's sudden, affronted wails reached them downstairs, and Diana gave Anne a look equal parts exasperation and indulgence, accompanying this with a fond kiss to the cheek, before scurrying back up to her son.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert savoured every step of the walk from the farm to Green Gables, his tread confident and firm, even as his thoughts fluttered around his head as the beating of butterfly wings, darting to and fro; fleeting ideas for what he could say… and what he could suggest to do… with Anne. Yesterday in her absence he had spent a pleasant, companionable day with his father in the orchard and his mother in the house, feeling the steady rhythm of their lives slowly returning to them, like a reverberating echo of a greeting shouted out many weeks before.

It was a brilliant August now; he had missed July completely, and he smiled at the sun on his face and thought of Dr Spencer, who had visited again and marvelled at the difference a few days had made. His next visit would be in a week, and perhaps after that only if necessary. Gilbert felt stronger and more supple; limbs working with him and not against him, and assessing himself in the glass that morning, he grinned over Anne's excellent work on trimming his curls, which had encouraged even his mother to raise eyebrows in impressed examination. He was also pleased to note that any weight regained was at least going first to his face, so that he was looking more human male and less skeletal apparition. He was slowly beginning to feel something like his old self again, and with it the tantalising promise of the season pulled him ever forward; down the lane, skirting the edge of the woods and to the sight of the old, handsome homestead, glinting welcome in the light.

There was a moment's hesitation before he knocked on the green door, knowing that Anne wouldn't be expecting him, and hoping he was still early enough to waylay her before she made the opposite journey.

Marilla Cuthbert opened the door, and her blue eyes, so troubling for her these past years, grew wide in astonishment, before a rare, full-bodied smile overtook her angular face.

"Why, Gilbert! Aren't you a wonderful sight this fine morning!" the work-worn hands grasped his tightly, her gaze roaming over his features with a fervour both surprising and gratifying.

"Hello Miss Cuthbert," he grinned. "It _is_ good to see you, too. I'm very sorry I missed you when you called with Anne the other day."

"Not at all! Come in, come in! Did you walk all the way over here?"

"I did. I admit it felt very good to do so."

"Well, Gilbert, you must come in and sit down. Just rest a while and I'll call up for – "

" _Gilbert Blythe!_ " the astonished alacrity of Rachel Lynde broke through the morning quiet, and the matronly woman strode towards him with none of the genteel restraint of her companion, instead reaching up to wrap him in a firm hug. "Well, take a look at you! We knew a Blythe had to be equal to the challenge of licking typhoid, that's what! Goodness, how good it is to see you! Has anyone called up for Anne?"

"I was just about – " attempted Marilla, before interrupted yet again, this time by a greeting from the twins; Dora all shy wonder, a pretty girl on the cusp of beautiful; and Davy, still a whirling dervish of enthusiastic energy. Gilbert had seen so little of them the past two years he almost felt he should reintroduce himself.

"You look good, Gilbert. I'm glad you are well again," Davy offered in amusing formality accompanying Dora's eager nod, adding a handshake to boot, as if he felt he had to enact a role as sole man of the household. "I thought you might look sicker. Folks were real worried about you here." He frowned as if Gilbert had caught typhoid explicitly to interfere with his own summer plans, until Gilbert remembered his partiality for Anne.

"Thank you all… Davy, Dora, Mrs Lynde, Miss Cuthbert," Gilbert nodded to each in turn. "I apologise for the recent worry, and thank you all for your kindness and prayers and baking and preserves. I know my parents join me in expressing our gratitude." His eyes landed meaningfully on Marilla's. "And I'm especially grateful to Anne, for her visits."

Marilla's smile was small and knowing, before movement on the stairs alerted them all to Anne standing uncertainly, a vision in a soft yellow dress that made her entire being feel it radiated. Her slow smile found him and made his heart thunder; could it have been only a day since he had seen her?

"Gilbert…" she murmured, eyes shining. "You beat me to the punch!"

"Well, it's not often I do that, Miss Shirley."

She grinned as she descended the stairs and crossed the room to reach him; a glowing orb floating towards him, luminous and lovely.

"Will you have some tea?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you. Ah, and I couldn't resist these I stumbled over on the way…" he offered the posy of wildflowers he had paused to collect; a joyous profusion of mayflowers and asters and absolutely no violets.

Anne accepted them with a firm blush, and he wondered if this was too bold an offering and too public a display. But Anne's beautiful face told a different story, and again he silently thanked the wisdom of his father.

"I was wondering whether, afterwards, we might take a walk, Anne? I seem to recall a certain apple tree could be overdue for a visit."

Her grin and nod were a delightful affirmation, and he felt the hope flower in him… budding; blossoming; blooming.

"What apple tree? Where? Can I come, too?" Davy demanded as Gilbert was ushered to a seat.

" _No!_ " Marilla and Rachel answered together in perfect unison.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*William Shakespeare _Macbeth_ (Act 1 Sc 7)

**William Shakespeare _Hamlet_ (Act 1 Sc 5)


	8. Chapter 8 Clasping

**Author's Note:**

 _With apologies, as ever, for the delay in this and in getting to all your wonderful, generous responses, in reviews and pm's. I am, like other writers on this site, trying to find a work-write balance ;) Thank you for your kindness and patience._

 _We are nearing the home stretch of this! One more chapter after this one, and then we join up with the canon timeframe again. Though there will be epilogue chapters, I assure you!_

 _Love, always,_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 **Clasping**

* * *

The apple tree, lone sentinel in the patch of bright sunlight at the edge of the woods, heard the couple long before it saw them.

The respective sounds were unmistakeable, for the apple tree did not hear many a human voice, excepting the occasional shout or cry of a child, come to investigate deep into the dark, possibly haunted woods in stout hearted courage, only invariably to run out again in trembling fright. But it would know _these_ voices as it would the rustling rumba of its own leaves in the breeze. The light, lilting laugh; that deep, warm chuckle, and the pleasant low resonance of another enquiry, answered with a girlish eagerness, which wove the weave of their conversation. Their talk was fluent and fast-flowing; a gentle zephyr, carrying happiness and hope on the air, and then, as the couple emerged from the long shadows of the woods, they grew quiet, crossing into the sunny glade and towards the tree with an almost awed reverence, and the tree stood tall and proud in their sight.

The apple tree searched back a long time to remember a visit from this couple together; the tall, handsome, dark-haired man who had first discovered it, had visited recently; pale and gaunt and exhausted, in mind and body. He had come haphazardly these past years, always alone, staring up as if expecting the answers to the universe to be found in bark or branch, blossom or fruit, hazel eyes dull and mouth downturned in defeat. The pretty woman and her titian hair, a blaze of fire as of the setting sun, it had not noted for a long time… Until, in the aftermath of the recent storm, in the surprise serenity of the early morning, she had come, breaking through the woods as the dawn itself, tears and hair streaming, sobbing at its roots, hugging its trunk, begging an offering before snapping off a low sprig in broken apology. Once, the apple tree might have imagined the figures in other incarnations; a favourite dream was the woman trekking back and forth to collect its apples as loving offering from Eve to Adam, taking from ground and branches both, _picking it clean_ to bake in pies presented as gift and in gratitude. The apple tree much preferred _this_ to the dread nightmare of the man, anguished and beyond comfort and even reason, _incandescent with rage,_ hacking it to pieces until it was just a _shredded stump._ * But these two, now, made a peaceable, harmonious picture; the man in happy good health, the woman in glowing good grace, and when they turned their eyes from the tree to one another, there was laid before it the perfect promise of new possibility.

The man set down a basket at his feet and stepped forward with three long strides, large hand placed on its trunk as if a stethoscope over a heartbeat, staring up into the dusky fruit on its lofty branches, grown high and haphazard as no cultivated orchard-grown specimen ever could. Then, astonishingly, he leant in, nose to bark, inhaling the wild, rangy scent and breathing out again in the one long, laboured breath. He had composed himself when he turned to the woman, smile calm yet contemplative.

"The smell is the same, Anne, as the sprig you brought me. I would have known it anywhere. I knew it then, even after my fever. It's wild and wonderful. _Come_. See."

He gestured to her in gentle encouragement, and she stepped forward with a small smile, her look to him both indulgent and inspired, and she copied his motion, pausing first to stoke the rough trunk before plunging her own shapely nose against it. _Thank you_ she whispered into its bark, the tremulous sound reaching all the way to heartwood, and the apple tree shivered delightedly in response from roots to crown.

The man and woman both stepped back, admiring of the specimen before them as only the son of an orchardist and the truest of tree lovers could do.

"It's trying its' best after the storm – I can see that," the man nodded, hands on slim hips. "Battered about, but still standing."

"As _you_ are," the woman gave her companion a shining smile, which earned a wry chuckle. "It was stripped bare of all its lovely blossoms, Gil, but here it was – so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so resilient and strong. I thought… I thought that if the tree – _your_ tree – could survive, then…" she hesitated, looking away, unable to finish the thought, and missed the lovely soft smile he gave her, but not the pressure of his large hand as it reached out to clasp hers.

"We're both still here, Anne." Whether the man meant he and the tree or he and the woman, the voice was so low and fervent the tone transformed the words to vow.

"Yes…" the woman nodded, giving uneven reply, "and I'm grateful for it, every day."

She turned luminous, large grey eyes to his, and the palpable tremor ran through the apple tree at the force of feeling between them. What had changed? The woman had never looked that way to the man before, as if realising how much her own joy, now and in the future, was utterly, irrevocably tied to him. The man, who had always looked that way towards _her,_ squeezed her hand in acknowledgement, and then, as if indeed the trapped passion of years had burst forth from him, leant to kiss her hand, lingeringly, gallantly, meaningfully.

The apple tree worried that the man, neat brown curls tamed above intelligent dark brows, had overreached himself, but it noted with some relief the deep, pleased blush tinge the woman's cheeks, and she gave the man such a starry smile as would have encouraged the hardest, most impenetrable heart to leap in response. _This_ man's heart was neither, and was barely able to withstand such onslaught.

"Well, now…" the man smiled again, and then cleared his throat, eyes lighting at the thought of a challenge. "I wonder if I can find it?"

" _Find_ it?"

"The point at which one tree became two. I have a riotous sprig in my bedroom that will soon be demanding its own plot in our garden."

The man, still with hand firmly around the woman's own, thus began an exacting search of the lower limbs, where they tapered off to smaller branches, and beyond that to twigs, and then to green leaves with their distinctive ragged edge. New budding blossoms were dotted about, enticingly eager to flower anew. The storm had wrenched some small branches and twigs away, now laying as a rough carpet beneath the umbrella of its canopy. The man's quest was therefore more difficult than anticipated; there were several spots that might have given up the twig Anne had taken as talisman; and then he came to a carefully severed section, laying the broad thumb of his free hand against it, rubbing across the sever wonderingly.

" _Here,"_ he stated, and then drew her hand up to test his theory, seeing that, a tiptoe, the woman would have reached it.

"It's all a bit of a blur, coming here that morning…. but… possibly, yes," was his answer.

"Well, let's pretend I'm right. But _you_ were wrong about one thing, Anne," he turned to her, joined hands still outstretched. "Not _my_ tree. _Ours._ "

One brilliant, shiny tear traced a path down flushed cheek, pink lips quivering, and the man raised the same thumb with infinite tenderness to brush it away.

The apple tree halted its swaying as much as possible, unwilling to interrupt the moment. It thought the man might embrace the woman, then and there, and goodness knows it had been long enough in coming. Stilled together as if on an expectant breath, hands clasped and eyes searching one another's, the duo might have been the embodiment of Love itself. And then, despite all its' efforts, the playful breeze gusted across a delicate branch, dislodging a clutch of ripe fruit which landed with a series of ceremonial clunks at their feet.

The moment was broken, and the man and woman, always keenly appreciative of life's absurdities, broke away themselves, escaping into embarrassed laughter.

"Do you think _our tree_ is trying to tell us something, Anne?" the man grinned, scooping up the dusky-red offerings, extending one to the woman as gift.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

"Argh…." Gilbert groaned some time later, clutching his stomach with extravagant theatricality, sitting up from where he had reclined the long, lean length of his body in relaxed languor on the picnic rug underneath the apple tree. "Too. Much. Food!"

Anne laughed merrily, eyes dancing, setting aside her apple to focus on his form. "You really _didn't_ have to finish that last piece of pie, you know."

"I know…" he moaned, rubbing his abdominals gingerly. "But it was a matter of principle, Miss Shirley. I needed to see that I still _could."_

"Spoken like the true sixteen year old you still are inside," she shook her head in mock reproach, through the gleam of fondness softened the schoolmarm. "The one who just _had_ to come first, be fastest, be the best at everything."

He made a sound that was an indignant combination of guffaw and splutter. "My lady, as I recall, I was rarely running that race by myself!" he smiled broadly at the memory.

"No…" Anne's tone softened, and her expression grew wistful. Sitting opposite him, she drew her knees up to her little pointed chin, resting it upon her skirts. "But I sometimes wonder what would have happened to us, if our earliest memories of one another weren't quite so… _combative._ "

"Don't trample on those memories, Anne. They're pretty precious to me."

"Even the pond incident?" she sighed dramatically.

He toyed with a smile. " _Especially_ the pond incident."

She lifted her eyes to his at his earnest manner, herself, too, grown suddenly serious. "I don't see _how,_ Gil, considering what a mean and spiteful ninny I was."

"Oh, the _mean_ and _spiteful_ I could have well done without," he offered teasingly. "But there was something in your eyes that day… I think you wanted to forgive me, but you just wouldn't allow yourself. I remember _that_ annoyed me more than if you had decided against me forever."

"You're right," she flushed, dipping her gaze again. "I _did_ want to _._ "

His look to her was searching, and he attempted to lighten the gravity in hers. "Any other revelations I should know about, Miss Shirley?"

"Do we limit ourselves to school, or do we just leap forward to Redmond?" she attempted wryly.

" _Redmond?"_ Gilbert felt his mouth go dry. "What dread disclosures do you have about Redmond?"

His jocular tone was not quite permeating that pale, perturbed face.

"Oh, Gil… you must know how proud I am of you, and how sorry I am. How very sorry."

"You're _sorry_ you're proud of me?"

"Gil!" she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I am trying to say…that… I wasn't there for you. I let you run yourself into the ground. I should have checked on you. I should have been… a better friend, if nothing else." She seemed to dash her hand, quickly, against her cheek, as if to offset a new tear.

"Anne-girl…" Gilbert offered quietly. "We said we weren't going to do this. A clean slate. Remember?"

"Yes…" she whispered forlornly.

"And you _were_ there for me… at least in my thoughts. Our old sense of competition still fuelled me. I will be going to medical school on the strength of it, after all."

"Gil, you will be going to medical school on the strength of your _hard work_ and _brilliance_ ," she protested loyally.

He paused, feeling himself color faintly at her praise, still unused to the sensation of her support after the years of distance and awkwardness.

"Hard work and a few brains were nothing to having your voice in my ear, Anne, all this time, urging me on. Even if you didn't always know it." She certainly didn't have to know the rest; that her voice had been in his ear as taunt as much as encouragement, reminding him he had clearly not been enough if she had been so easily swayed by Gardner's charms … that he had offered up his health, his spirit and sometimes his sanity, in chasing the Cooper, because he hadn't had anything else to hope for.

"And you are _not_ responsible for me taking the study too far, Anne," his own brow furrowed. "I could have found a better balance. I just… didn't want to."

Well, _that_ was the God's honest truth, at any rate. There had been something perversely satisfying in prostrating himself before the altar of this all-encompassing obsession with academic perfection. He had believed, in the absence of any other way to control his life, that he could control _this;_ instead, inevitably, finding it had come to control _him._ His studies had offered the perfect excuse for everything – to not go out, to not see friends, to not see _her._

Gilbert watched Anne gnaw her lower lip, as if she was uncertain as to whether to tread further down this very bleak path. This was not what he desired for her – for _them._ This was not what this day, and all their future days, was meant to be about.

"I _will_ allow you to proud of me, though," he redirected with a smug look, and was relieved to see her lips quirk. "As long as you know how proud I am of _you,_ Miss Principal of Summerside High _._ I just wish…" and here he almost bit off his own tongue, to have drawn them back from one cliff face only to blithely jump off another, "I just wish, at Convocation, we'd had that chance. To tell each other. To share that joy and acknowledge that pride. That we had allowed ourselves… that moment."

"You mean _I_ didn't allow us that moment. When I wouldn't dance with you."

Her eyes were downcast again and the flush to her cheeks had morphed to magenta. Her fingers worried her lovely yellow dress, running distractedly up and down a seam. He wished to God he _could_ ask her about the damned dance. Had she been worried about Gardner's reaction? Did she feel embarrassed for having chosen his lilies? Had she not wanted him to get his hopes up again?

"Well…" he swallowed carefully, teetering again on the precipice. "There will be other dances, Anne."

Her face was so sorrowful, he wanted to reach out and embrace her, there on the rug before God and the heavens and their apple tree, and chase away every last remnant of regret she was clasping too tightly.

"But… that's the _point,_ Gil! There _won't_ be! You'll be in Kingsport and I'll be in Summerside and we'll hardly see each other! You'll be able to pick up with your old… _acquaintances…_ " she fairly grimaced at the word, "and I'll be there not knowing a soul, far away from everyone and… _you._ " Her voice wavered betrayingly.

His heart lurched at her open vulnerability, and the confession of her need of him.

"I thought you used to say good friends are always together in spirit, Anne."

"Yes, well, that won't count for much, when you're surrounded by all those _new_ good friends every hour of the day!" her eyes flashed as green as her envious retort, and he had to bite down on his lip to stop his sudden ungentlemanly delight in her discomfort.

"More like I'll be surrounded by _cadavers_ every hour of the day," he offered with admirable blandness, fighting his grin.

This earned him a fetching scowl, doing beautiful justice to the long ago near-drowned lily maid who had viewed his passage along the pond towards her with such a scornful air.

With a sudden shamed clarity, Gilbert recalled his father's words to him, and the transition from _chum_ to _suitor_ he was trying to navigate. Their banter was a marvellous mainstay of their relationship and always would be, but was it really just another way to shield their true feelings? Hadn't Phil herself warned him of this as well?

 _That I didn't just want to be her chum any longer, because I saw her not just as a friend, but as a… woman. And the way to show her was to make her see me as a man."_

Well, _this_ wasn't showing her he was a man, let alone the man for _her;_ _this_ was showing her he was still a blooming idiot.

"Anne, I'm sorry. I don't mean to jest," he backpedalled. "I want to be serious about this, actually – "

"Oh, yes, Gilbert Blythe, you are so very serious about this!"

 _Oh, blast it!_

" _No,_ Anne," he shimmied over the rug towards her, taking her hand again in his, and her startled look to him was of a deer caught in the crosshairs. "I want you to know it doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, you are _always_ with me. In my heart. _Always._ Please know that. I hope you understand you're one of the most important people in the world to me."

He didn't quite know whether her stupefied silence was a good thing or not. Had it been too much? Could he _never_ quite get the balance right with her?

Her mouth formed an _O_ of surprise, and she was immobile for long moments.

"Yes, Gil," she murmured. "As… as _you_ are, to me."

He expelled a silent breath of relief, and then followed her look down to their clasped hands, his thumb tracing a lazy circle over hers. His touch was an intimate one, he realised, and it felt so natural he'd been completely unaware. But she was not uncomfortable with him, like this – he had seen her uncomfortable around him too many times before to not mark the difference now – she was welcoming of the touch, with a burning-faced wonder. God in his Heaven, what he wouldn't give to kiss her right now – _now_ , this very moment! – and let there be no confusion between them when their bodies spoke to one another instead.

 _Slow… steady... sure…_ he reminded himself, a little desperately.

"With that in mind, Miss Shirley," his voice low with emotion, "I believe a while back we were talking about the missed opportunity for a dance. A situation I hope to rectify if you will honour me with your company this coming Saturday evening."

"A … dance?" she blinked her confusion.

Gilbert released her hand, reluctantly, to give her space.

"And not just _any_ dance I'll have you know, but _the_ dance. The social event of the summer. At White Sands Hotel."

" _White Sands?"_

He took a moment to savour her reaction, and thanked Providence for being on his side, for once.

"I'm sorry for the short notice, Anne. During my fever I received an invitation from the White Sands School Board. The school has an important upcoming anniversary, and is holding a celebratory dinner and dance, at the hotel, for past pupils and most esteemed and beloved former schoolmasters, such as yours truly."

He allowed a grin here, thinking how perfect was both the timing and the occasion.

"Oh, Gil! That is… that is… very flattering for you, and a very generous invitation…" she hedged.

"Is there a _yes_ somewhere in there, Carrots?"

The smile she gave at the old nickname was a wavering one. "I would love to come with you, Gil. Only… are you sure, _absolutely_ sure, there's no one else you would wish to invite instead?"

He tried to interpret those large grey eyes staring into his, grown smoky and dark with an uncertainty, nay, an apprehension, he didn't quite understand.

"Anne, there is _no_ one else roaming this earth whom I wish to invite more than yourself!"

She smiled, wholeheartedly, at that, at last.

"Thank you, then, Gil! Absolutely _yes!_ What a delightful evening I'm sure it will be!"

He was rather hopeful of that himself. He was bursting now with the possibilities that were unfolding… of being able to properly woo her, without artifice but also without uncomfortable conjecture, far away from prying Avonlea eyes. To have a special outing to share with her; one that had nothing to do with the mixed memories of Redmond, but was unique to them, and hearkened back to a simpler time when their days followed the gentler rhythms of teaching and A.V.I.S meetings and study together, and the most exciting point of his entire week was dashing back to Avonlea on a Friday and taking the familiar walk through these very woods to meet her. That breathless moment when he saw she waited for him at the gate, or he came upon her in the garden, or gathering flowers, or bursting through the front door of Green Gables to regale him with her latest plan or fancy.

"I am certain it will be," he replied warmly. "Our first dance together, after all."

"Oh Gil, you well know you've been my escort to plenty of dances!"

 _Ay, there's the rub._ ** And here was his moment.

"No, Anne, that's not what I mean. Yes, I was proud to escort you to all those dances, but we invariably went together in a group with the other girls, and with some of the other fellows too, and I had to share you with half of Redmond. We fell into going together, as good friends do, with no expectations and no intent. I never went with you properly, as your date… I never, ever asked you to attend with me specifically, out of choice and not out of habit…"

He took up her hand again, his own clasp as strong and steady as his next words.

"So I am formally asking you here, _now,_ Miss Anne Shirley, to please allow me to escort you to _this_ dance. In the full _expectation_ that we will get very dressed up, and I will collect you in my carriage, and I will drop you back home incredibly late - late enough to unsettle Miss Cuthbert and infuriate Mrs Lynde with the scandalous impropriety of it. I will be so attentive towards you during the evening that other fellows will clearly see my _intent_ written all over my face, and dare not approach you, for fear of my jealous wrath. And if they _do_ take their lives into their own hands by requesting a turn about the room with you, I will have you brandish your dance card at them, which will be full of my _own_ name beside every dance except the one, which I will allow myself to sit out and admire you from afar as you waltz with one dreary school official or other, just so that I can relish that perspective of you. Let it be clearly understood, Anne-girl, _this_ is what I mean when I ask you to accompany me to this dance."

His voice had become as velvety and persuasive as any melancholy hero, but his hazel eyes flamed with an ardent fire very much his own. He was secretly satisfied to see the heave he felt in his chest echoed in hers, as her trim torso rose and fell unsteadily. The red flush to her pale cheeks snaked a path all the way down her alabaster throat, and her teeth bit that lower shell pink lip enticingly. After years of patient, penitent waiting, and then the sad estrangement following his disastrous proposal, _here_ was the point he'd striven to reach; to declare himself with ardour and audaciousness, and to have his affections mirrored in those eyes as green as the foliage above them, and that small hand in his tighten its grip on his own.

"With that in mind, Anne, will you do me the honour of accompanying me to the dance at White Sands?"

"Yes, Gilbert…" she made awed answer. "Thank you. The honour will be mine."

He smiled slowly at her reply, his features a study in mature, manly composure, when on the inside he was shouting his delight and cavorting like a schoolboy. He continued to nurse his grin as they lamented the other responsibilities calling their time together that day to a close. The high noonday sun overhead was surely the thing responsible for that new flare to her cheeks every time she darted a glance at him, as they packed up the picnic things with quiet resolve.

Gilbert patted the trunk of the apple tree in fond farewell, and then turned to offer his arm.

"Thank you for a wonderful picnic, Anne."

"Thank you for the company, Gil. And for the suggestion of location. It was perfect."

 _Yes…_ he thought to himself. _It just about was._

* * *

The man picked up the basket and set off with the woman, both too aware of one another to realise what a charming couple they made. The tree wished for a few more moments with them, just so, but they were soon across the glade and back into the shelter of the woods, as quiet and contemplative as had their arrival been.

The apple tree might have been disappointed by the careful camaraderie of the retreating pair, and would have guessed surely a kiss to have accompanied their passionate conversation, but it sensed the story was not quite finished for the woman and the man.

Until next they met, it would work on its blossoms, and bide its time.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

I am obviously not the first to write about the famed wild apple tree, nor I'm sure the last. I am attempting to write it in to every one of my long stories, in the same way that I feel a chapter is incomplete without at least one reference to Blythe curls, shoulders, or both. With that in mind, thank you to everyone for their lovely responses to last chapter's hair cut. It is a real effort, I assure you, to find ways in which to progress the intimacy of these two without this becoming a _kissing book,_ al la _The Princess Bride._ I am holding to my canon quest! I don't know how you did it _LizzyEastwood!_ Not long now until _all_ of the kissing, that's what!

*Sharp-eyed readers will know the stories I reference in the second paragraph. If you need a reminder, please do yourself a favour in every respect by revisiting _Excel Aunt's Being a Blythe_ (Ch 8 'Christmas Pt 2') and _elizasky's Within a Forest, Dark_ (Ch 2 'The Apple Tree').

**William Shakespeare _Hamlet_ (Act 3 Sc1)


	9. Chapter 9 Longing

**Author's Note:**

Dear Lovely Anne-girls,

I have been putting off posting this chapter for days, so that I might properly catch up on previous wonderful responses to it, and repay many of your own wonderful stories in kind. It is still my solemn vow and promise to you all. Please know that I will get to each and every one of you, but thank you all here now, and apologise, grovelingly, in the best Anne tradition, with hands clasped and imploring eyes...

Meanwhile, the writing on here continues to thrill, inspire and astound me.

With very best wishes,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 **Longing**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne sat at her little dressing table in her east gable room, staring with grave grey eyes at the woman looking back at her, unblinkingly unimpressed in her assessment. Nothing was working. She had felt Queen of Redmond the first time she had worn this gown; the cream shift with the organza overlay, adorned with Phil's delicate rosebuds, which had made her the envy of all, even her unlikely seamstress. She wished she had Phil's bolstering presence now, for all her long-ago pride and confidence had definitely deserted her. She was too pale, making an uncomfortable contrast to those unfairly vivid seven freckles, and her hair refused to cooperate despite all manner of cajoling. Even Matthew's pearls, which she had wanted to wear in his honour, tonight, looked wrong, with their gleaming ivory clashing with rather than complimenting the soft cream of the material at her décolletage.

There was a knock at the door, and then Dora entered, hazel eyes lighting with admiration, arm extended so as to not wrinkle her precious cargo.

"Hello Anne. Here is your wrap Marilla pressed for you."

"Oh darling, thank you! Will you lay it on the bed for me?"

Anne gave the girl a distracted smile, turning back to the glass with perturbed expression. Should she try flowers in her hair? She had no special flowers to hand, and the idea, in this dress, just made her think of Roy and his orchids. Which made her think of the dance he had taken her to, in this dress, which just reminded her, miserably, of the first time she had seen Christine Stuart.

 _Calm yourself. She will NOT be there tonight. She is not a part of this evening._

Hardly helping matters was the beautiful blonde maiden coming to stand behind her reflection; a fair Elaine if ever there was one, girlishly and charmingly awed.

"Anne, you look like a regal princess, escaped from a fairytale castle."

"Oh Dora, you are a sweet. I _feel_ I resemble the fairytale _troll_ hiding under the drawbridge."

Dora gave a bemused smile at this exaggeration, surprisingly knowing for her still-tender years. "I don't think Gilbert will think that."

At the sound of his name said aloud, Anne's heart gave a queer flutter. She hardly knew _what_ Gilbert might think of her ensemble tonight. This was certainly the very best dress she possessed, but it was not new to _him,_ however much he may have been too busy admiring _starry violet eyes and a rose-leaf complexion_ * to much notice it that long-ago evening. But there hadn't been time to make over an old dress, nor purchase a new one, let alone, much to her bitter disappointment, to be off to Carmody in search of a jeweller to fix a certain gold chain on which had rested a pink enamel heart.

"Dora, darling, how is the back of my hair?"

"Ahh…" the younger girl hesitated, brows drawing together.

Anne grimaced. "You won't offend me, Dora. I know it is _not_ at its best." Anne in that moment sorely lamented the passing of the Patty's Place days, where preparing for a dance had been a cosily communal affair, with jokes and laughter and running out of one another's rooms with last minute sartorial distress calls, and there had always been someone on hand to help with recalcitrant hair.

"Could I… help? Minnie Mae always gets me to try out the latest updos for her, in her room where her mother won't see. I've gotten quite good."

" _Have_ you, darling?" Anne smiled in the mirror at her, touched to think here was a second generation of girls from Green Gables and Orchard Slope dreaming together and imagining themselves grown up. _When_ had little placid Dora Keith become this poised young lady? Even Davy, for all his unfortunate blurting, was a much calmer and steadier presence now, and already a real farmer in the making.

"Well lovely, thank you, I am very willing to have you try."

 _I certainly have nothing to lose…_ Anne breathed to herself, giving over to Dora's gentle ministrations. Soon enough, deft young fingers had taken her hair down and refashioned it into an elegant French roll, securing it with a few pins and the two gold combs with a matching little rosebud each that Phil had also gifted her, and then teasing out the tendrils to soften either side of her face, and parting the curls over her brow down the centre. The entire process took less than ten minutes. Anne gave her own awed look of genuine surprise.

"Dora, sweetheart! You're a marvel! How can I thank you?"

The effusive praise seemed to be thanks enough, for Dora blushed deeply, and was grinning as she accepted Anne's enthusiastic kiss. Anne felt instantaneously better groomed and infinitely more polished, sharing a giggling moment of relief spraying scent over she and Dora both until the room smelt as if a bower of lilies had sprouted there.

Still grinning herself, Anne turned back to the glass, but soon reached to fiddle pensively with her pearls. She sat down again and reached into the drawer, taking out the little box, opening it and holding the golden chain and the pink heart in her tremulous hand.

Dora gave an audible gasp. "Anne! The pendant – it's beautiful! Oh, that would look tremendous on you! I don't think the pearls are quite right."

Anne couldn't help but smile briefly at such a confident opinion, but could hardly fault her hypothesis, looking down at the necklace sadly.

"Did… did Mr Gardner…?"

"No," Anne closed off that conjecture quickly. "This came last Christmas… from Gilbert."

Dora's eyes had widened comically, and her lovely features took on a starstruck dreaminess that seemed to owe more to Minnie May Barry's overly romantic sensibilities than Dora's own.

"He must have loved you a very long time, then."

It was a statement of fact rather than question, and Anne's face immediately flooded with color. _She didn't dare think… she couldn't possibly hope… and yet… and yet…_

"The chain is broken," she admitted despondently, as if that also negated any possibility of it being a token of love and not, as she had thought at the time, merely an amusing callback to those candy hearts of their school days.

"I have another, Anne," Dora, nonplussed, swiftly left the room to journey down the hall, and Anne had barely time to protest before she returned, holding up the gold chain with the little cross she wore on Sundays and for best, proceeding to slide the cross off in unbothered sacrilege before presenting the chain to Anne.

"Love, I don't think…"

"Try it."

With surprisingly shaky fingers, Anne unclasped the strand of pearls and laid them down gently. She slid the little blush-hued heart off its severed chain, threading it back through Dora's, and fastened it after two fumbling attempts. It wasn't a perfect match, and the chain sat a little lower than the original, now making an audacious lunge for her cleavage, but there was a rightness to wearing the heart that she could not deny. It added a little needed color, and beautifully matched the romance of the dress. The pinky hue reflected the tiny rosebuds scattered over bodice and skirt, let alone the new tinge to her cheeks.

"Perfect," Dora sighed, pleased with a job well done.

There was a thundering as of horses' hooves on the stairs, and then a boisterous knock at Anne's door.

" _Gilbert's here!"_ Davy bellowed, as if town cryer announcing the village was under seige, loud enough to shake the very foundations of the house, and the news of their visitor likewise battered Anne's just recovered equilibrium.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Earlier, Gilbert fiddled with his frustrating tie, long fingers, certainly browner than at the start of the summer, refusing to oblige him with the perfect knot just when he needed it most. He wanted to be slightly early over to Green Gables, to see if he couldn't find an opportunity to ask Marilla for a moment with him in the next few days. He felt sure, surer than ever, of Anne's altered feelings towards him, and there had been several breathless exchanges by the apple tree to confirm in his mind what he'd dared start to know in his heart. Hazel eyes roamed his appearance critically, smiling at the neat brown curls he had purposefully left pomade-free in Anne's honour, noting with relief that his face and body had filled out again and that ironically, despite his illness, he was looking better now than he'd had the past year. But then, he'd had little to look forward to this past year, apart from the ceaseless grind of study and the bitter torment of seeing Anne with Roy. Now he had tonight, and the dance that was all about enjoying their time together; to close the chapter on the past and to open a new page to the future. If he could just manage this blasted tie!

A swift knock at the door heralded his father, his entire face smiling at the sight of his boy, tall and resplendent and heathy and _here._ If there had ever been a slight twinge of disappointment that Gilbert hadn't seen his future following him onto the farm, John Blythe had felt it vanish the instant Gilbert had collapsed in the kitchen that first morning, deathly pale and murmuring incoherently. There had only been, ever after, the most desperate prayers for his survival and then recovery; that his evident happiness should follow so closely behind was an eventuality that even John, ever the quiet optimist, could not have dared hoped for.

"I've hitched the horse to the buggy for you, son. Everything's ready."

"Thanks very much, Dad."

"The question is – are _you?_ " John eyes gleamed with his son's own humour.

"Well, that all depends…" Gilbert rolled his own eyes, still wrangling his white bow tie, "since I _still_ can't seem to dress myself."

"Let's see to that," John gave an indulgent look, his own long, tanned, work-worn fingers taking up the reins. "You know it's far easier to manage when there's a woman around to do it," he offered leadingly, barely able to muzzle his grin.

"Thanks, Dad. I'll keep that in mind," Gilbert replied drolly.

Tie righted, Gilbert took a moment to check himself one more time, blowing out a steadying breath.

"I've never been this nervous about anything before, not even exams," he shook his head in despair, restless fingers now moving to adjust his pocket hankerchief.

"Gil, were you thinking… _tonight?_ " John Blythe's eyes had widened.

"Tonight?"

"To propose, son."

" _Propose?_ " Gilbert blanched. "Oh, Dad, no, I hadn't really… It's a little public, and I'd prefer somewhere quieter, somewhere belonging to me and Anne… What, do you think Anne is expecting me to, tonight? I haven't even had a chance to talk to Marilla yet, or to – ''

"Son! Easy! I wasn't suggesting anything. Just trying to assist you, however we can. Your mother _and_ I."

"I don't think Ma will want to assist me in proposing again to Anne…" Gilbert remarked, low-voiced.

"Don't be so sure. She just wants you healthy, first, and happy, a close second. And even s _he_ has had to admit that Anne has played an instrumental part in both."

Gilbert flushed, ever wonderous at the truth behind both statements.

"Just don't tell her I told you so," his father added with a cheeky wink, clapping him on the back.

"How did you know I was thinking it?" Gilbert's cheeks further heated. "Is it that obvious?"

John Blythe stared at the handsome man before him, slightly outclassed now in both height and breadth, and completely surpassed in way of brains and drive and potential, and content to be so. There was the eagerness of the boy he had been in the hope and light now radiating from him; such a happy contrast to the pale, shadowed figure who had arrived back to them, defeated and already desperately ill.

"It's only obvious you're a man in love is all, Gil. Nothing wrong with that."

Gilbert couldn't help his sheepish smile, but then grew thoughtful. "I have some savings, Dad. I didn't spend so much these past months with all the study…" he paused, swallowing. "On Monday I thought I'd go up to Charlottetown and… and… see about a ring. I want to have one this time… I didn't even think of it last time, not that it would have made a difference _then,_ but…"

"You want to be prepared," John offered gently, nodding. "I understand. But will you see us before you dash off anywhere? If your thoughts are still turned that way, that is."

Gilbert grinned. "My thoughts have _always_ turned that way, Dad!" He patted himself down, and then arched dark eyebrows. "Well, will I pass muster, then?"

John Blythe's heart surged with pride, but it wouldn't do for junior to get too cocky.

"Ah, now _that_ your mother will have firm and definite opinions on! Come and let her gush over you before you set off."

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Descending the stairs of Green Gables with utmost care, Anne allowed herself a little thrill of anticipation, noting the tall and utterly handsome guest with his dark curly head inclined in quick and earnest conference with Marilla, before turning to watch her own arrival. Anne realised, vaguely, how Dora smiled softly and Davy grinned broadly and Rachel looked her up and down with proud and evident approval. Marilla's brimful blue eyes took in all the features of the dress Anne had tried to conjure in her letter home from Redmond so long ago. But Anne's own eyes sought hazel ones, shining with an open admiration that had stilled that lean, loved face, and the slow smile that fired his gaze was a light that chased away all the shadows that dared linger regarding their soon-separation.

"Hello, Anne," Gilbert greeted huskily, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes seemed unable to know where to settle, roaming from her face to awed appraisal of her dress, coming to a stuttering stop at the sight of the enamel heart, before remembering himself and lifting his gaze again to hers.

"Hello, Gil," she was obviously incapable of offering a more imaginative greeting.

"Anne, you look…" Gilbert hesitated, as if searching through his vocabulary for an acceptable adjective, "just… _breathtaking._ "

The simple statement and the touching sincerity behind it illustrated the stark contrast between Gilbert and Roy, and one it had taken her a painfully long time to realise. Roy in this situation would have waxed lyrical for several minutes, uttering all sorts of romantic-sounding epithets, possibly invoking poetry into the bargain. On the surface his compliments would be a swoonworthy serenade, and in the beginning she did indeed thrill to them, but the more they were offered so easily, the less she became convinced of them.

Gilbert, meanwhile, never said anything he didn't mean, even that first dread time of _Carrots._ Whether in joke or jest, earnest and thoughtful or charming and playful, or occasionally wretched and hurt, he always told the truth as he saw it. Sometimes – many a time – the truth had been painful; particularly, recently, for both of them. For Anne, whose idea of _truth_ , particularly in her younger days, had been rather more fluid and fanciful, Gilbert had remained steady and stalwart and sure… a straight arrow of goodness faithfully aimed at the ever-moving target of her heart.

So now, he had gifted her a compliment that throbbed from his every earnest pore, and she hugged it to her, even as she sought to repay in kind. He himself looked handsome beyond measure, with the cut of his dark suit emphasising his regained impressive physique, and his mobile features – inviting lips and roguish eyes and darling dimple and splendid chin and captivating curls - trained on hers. What could she say to him in return? Nothing would properly suffice. _Irresistibly handsome? Dark and dashing? Amazingly attractive?_

"Thank you, Gil," she uttered at last. "And you look wonderfully debonair."

It wasn't as gushing a sentiment as she could have offered or that he deserved, but Gilbert's cheeks flushed slightly all the same.

"That's very kind of you. It's a beautiful dress, Anne. I didn't get a chance to say so when you first wore it."

"At… Redmond? You remember?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry that… it isn't new," Anne faltered.

"It's new, tonight, for _me_ ," he remarked winningly, and they shared a soft smile.

Their curious audience was drinking in this spectacle, and on her periphery she could see Rachel give a very eyebrow-raising glance to Marilla, who thankfully remained impassive, though the coded conjecture made Anne feel decidedly uncomfortable. Gilbert sensed her uneasiness, attempting to usher her out amidst Davy's myriad questions about the buffet dinner on offer, whilst Dora quietly entreated her to note how the ladies wore their hair and Rachel gave loud and enthusiastic reminder to watch for the unevenness of the road. As Anne donned her wrap and long white gloves, she gave all a wave and Marilla a kiss goodnight, who in turn gave gentle instruction to have a lovely evening, with a glance over Anne's shoulder to Gilbert for good measure.

Gilbert wasted no time in assisting her into the buggy and they were away; down the long approach to the house and passing the Haunted Wood before either of them dared draw breath again.

"It'd be easier to escape from the penitentiary," Gilbert chuckled, shaking his head fondly.

"It would probably be quicker," Anne replied, smiling.

"I don't know how you ever got anything done there, Anne, all these years. Coursework, exam marking, anything."

"My fondness for trees isn't just inspired by nature," she answered wryly. "And I recall suggesting we go on a great many walks."

"Ah, so it was just to _avoid_ company, and not _seek_ _mine,"_ Gilbert lamented dramatically. "I feel so let down."

"If it's any consolation, I liked you at least as much as the landscape," she gave a coy smile.

His chuckle was longer and dreadfully amused, as if enjoying seeing her so light hearted. Anne felt his laugh reverberate through her, and it was marvellous to see how _he,_ too, seemed transformed by the promise of the evening. The betwixt-time of twilight enveloped their surroundings in a soft dim blanket that encouraged an easy intimacy, and Anne was dreadfully aware of the close confines of them together in the buggy; of the swaying motion that had her colliding with the length of his disconcertingly firm thigh; of his strong, handsome profile when not turning his face towards her; of his large, capable hands directing the horse. And up this close, too, the clean, inviting scent of him; the large, reassuring bulk of him; the _completeness_ she felt when she was with him, as if he alone could make whole that which she hadn't even known was so brittle and fractured.

"Mrs Lynde shouldn't worry about us getting there in one piece," Gilbert announced after a time. "I know this road as well as the Birch Path or Lover's Lane."

"You definitely travelled it often enough when we were teaching," Anne agreed.

"I would almost fly back here of a Friday afternoon. I think ironically the highlight of my week there was the leaving of it."

"Perhaps not _exactly_ the sort of memory you want to recall with those on the school board tonight," Anne laughed.

"Ah, no… perhaps not!"

"It _was_ awfully good of you to come home so often," Anne offered suddenly, wistfully, face upturned to his. "So many times I went to race across to your farm to ask you about this or that, only to remember as I was almost out the door that you were so far away."

"It sounds like you spent some time pining for me," Gilbert gave smug retort, turning towards her in turn, eyebrow cocked in challenge.

"Oh, you would have liked that, Gilbert Blythe, wouldn't you?" Anne scoffed merrily, and then, because it was the truth, and she was endeavouring to meet him at his own game, "maybe. A teeniest smidgeon, on a very rare occasion."

He grinned widely at this hardly effusive concession, holding her gaze. "Maybe, perhaps, on the _very rare occasion_ as I was hightailing it back to Avonlea, Miss Shirley, it was with your lovely face in my mind, calling me home."

Anne was extremely relieved that the coming darkness hid her blush.

"I'm sure you had many friends in White Sands who would have asked you to stay of a weekend," she demurred.

"I did," he mused, matter-of-factly, the knowledge a surprise to her, though it really shouldn't have been. The White Sands set was long reputed to be a _fast_ one, and Gilbert was liked and admired wherever he went. If Redmond had fallen so easily to his charms in the early years, she couldn't see how anyone in White Sands would have been immune.

This was an unpleasant realisation, but once admitting the thought she couldn't brush it aside.

"Was there anyone in particular who may have wished you not to travel home of a weekend?" she asked a mite too obviously, cringing internally at her lack of tact.

It seemed Gilbert wanted to smile again, but his eyes were serious. "Even if there had been, Anne, I was where I wanted to be, with those whom I most wanted to be _with."_

She gave a sweet smile at this, finally mollified.

They continued on companionably, Gilbert asking her about the school at Summerside and her duties there, and talking amusedly of the list of flunkies needing to be impressed and the rather long number of social engagements the Cooper Prize board had sent him, at which his _attendance was kindly requested._ His very best suit – the one he was currently filling out so nicely – would get a very regular airing, at this rate. Anne refused to dwell any longer on the likely ladies who might accompany him on such occasions, putting an almost-protective palm over the enamel heart, in the way she would always absentmindedly twist her strand of pearls. It drew Gilbert's attention again, and he cleared his throat carefully before speaking.

"I… I'm thrilled you wore the necklace tonight, Anne. It means a lot to me."

There was something in the rich timbre of his voice that had grown smoky and dark, and it elicited a very strange sensation in the pit of her belly.

"It's… very beautiful, and was such a sweet gift, Gil," she breathed carefully through her answer. "It's wonderful to be able to wear it at last."

He stared back at the road to White Sands for long moments, fighting his frown.

"You were uncomfortable at the thought of wearing it when we were… not close friends?"

"Oh, no, Gil, that's not it! I… I… thought to wear it to the dance after Convocation," she blurted miserably.

"The _dance?_ " his brows rose to his hairline. "I never saw you wear it at the dance."

" _No one_ did…" she sighed. "I… I… the chain broke. This one I'm wearing is borrowed from Dora."

"I see…" he took a breath. "I'm so relieved at that, Anne. It just didn't look quite the same to me… I thought the chain had been finer, maybe shorter, for the heart to sit at the hollow of your throat… ah, that is… I'm terribly sorry it broke on you. Maybe the chain was _too_ fine and – "

"No, Gilbert!" she interrupted, feeling wretched. "It wasn't you… it was _me._ I was too rough with it… probably in a hurry and…" she couldn't bear to dig herself further into her pit of lies, and the shame flared in her. "I'm sorry."

"Goodness, don't be sorry, Anne!" he reached to take her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "I'll get the chain fixed for you. And in the meantime, I'm happy to know you wear it, and that your heart is safe."

Her heart was _ever_ safe where he was concerned, real or decorative, she realised with a pang. She squeezed back, struggling for a smile. Her hand, too, remained safe in his, all the rest of the way to White Sands.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

The handsome and stately White Sands Hotel was already thronging with those attending the night's festivities by the time of their own arrival. The local residents loved nothing more than putting on a fine show, and the hotel itself, known throughout this part of the Island by reputation if not experience, was obviously still up to the attention. Gilbert flashed his invitation at the main door and they were directed past tables laden with photographs and memorabilia through to the grand ballroom. It was merrily festooned with bunting and streamers in the soft hues of summer, drawing the eye towards the shining centrepiece; the famed crystal chandelier, suspended from the ceiling as of a glittering orb descended from heaven.

Gilbert had attended an occasional gathering here in his two years teaching locally, though nothing stuck in his memory so much as the benefit concert at the hotel in the wake of Queen's pass list. He had watched, rapt and adoring, as the young lady now on his arm and looking about excitedly with shining emerald eyes had stood against the palms on the stage of the adjoining concert hall, all _slender white form and spiritual face._ ** He had spent an unhappy drive over with Josie Pye, who had kept up a steady stream of barbed comments along the lines of Anne's audacity in accepting the invitation to recite, and she was certain to be thoroughly outclassed by the professionals present and bring shame and embarrassment upon the whole of the Avonlea populace as a result. And he remembered that dread moment when Anne had stood, tremulous and terrified, before her eyes met his and something seemed to snap inside her, and she flung back her head in her characteristic way and thus paced towards yet another triumph. At the splendour on show she seemed to gulp and then do the same now, and he grinned down at her, unable to resist resurrecting the memory.

"You conducted that same move before your recitation here, Anne," he ventured, enjoying too much the way her slim white hand tightly clutched the crook of his arm for support. "The Shirley Haughty Head Toss. I came to know it well."

Where once she may have scowled at the slight, now she smiled amusedly.

"Oh, Gil! How did you know I was thinking of that old concert? I was so nervous. I felt I would faint and fall backwards into the foliage."

His smiling eyes found hers. "Well, _that_ would have been a dramatic accompaniment to your poem.

' _I've made a vow, I'll keep it true,_

 _I'll never married be;_

 _For the only ane that I think on_

 _Will never think o' me.'_ *** Cue, swoon."

He realised a beat too late in the sight of her warming cheeks how prophetic the long-ago words actually were, and tried to make light of the subject quickly.

"It was certainly a _tragical_ selection, in any case, Anne, most befitting of anyone with an affinity for Elaine of Astolat."

Her perfect nose wrinkled up at him at the tease.

"And _you_ are one to talk, Mr _Bingen on the Rhine_ Blythe! That wasn't a sad and pathetic choice at all!"

Now his own cheeks colored at her perfect parry, and his heart thundered at the memory as powerfully as it had all those years ago, when his youthful ardour found frustrated expression in fairly shouting out _there's another, NOT a sister_ **** and staring down at her passionately for good measure, only to be met with averted eyes and frosty indifference. Or _had_ she been indifferent?

"I thought you took up a book and refused to listen to me?" he countered carefully, dark brow arching.

"I might have remembered a line or two…" she murmured, blushing guiltily to his slow smile.

"Well, Miss Shirley, what say we remember our vow for this evening? You owe me an entire dance card of dances, as I recall."

"Except the one," she gave a shining smile to him, eyes dazzling.

"Except the one," he echoed throatily, his hand again finding the comfort of hers.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne had lost count of the number of times they were waylaid by the denizens of White Sands that evening, and admired Gilbert's forbearance in dealing so charmingly with bombastic school board members, pushy matrons and milling former students alike, as much as she was gratified by the way he drew her close with every new exchange of greeting, the heat of his hand coming to rest at her waist making her breath catch every time. Even whilst humbly accepting plaudits for his Cooper Prize award, news of which had reached the town they knew not how, he never failed to remind all and sundry that his erstwhile date was also a new BA and former schoolmarm at Avonlea, soon to be principal of Summerside High, and had originally been offered a place at the White Sands schoolhouse herself. His pride in her own achievements stuck her anew, and she realised how she had taken his support of her own ambitions for granted all these years, and how much she had subjugated her own interests and desires, and even talk of her writing, when faced with Roy's polite but tepid response.

Clearly, however, Gilbert's patience was more thoroughly tested by the entreaties for him to dance with every female in proximity but herself, and every time he begged off, protesting he couldn't possibly abandon his date, pointing out a certain full dance card for good measure, there materialised an obliging man, young, old and everything inbetween, to take his place. Certainly it was no holds barred here at White Sands, and the adherence to formalities such as dance cards an obviously fruitless endeavour. She nearly laughed aloud at his excessive eye rolls in her direction over the shoulders of his partners, and his handsome countenance, ever-darkening in displeasure, would have diverted her greatly except she felt much of his annoyance for herself. They had only managed two dances together before the break for supper; a lively polka and a stately quadrille, and neither had given them the opportunity for the quiet moment they both seemed to long for.

" _Rescue me, Miss Shirley!"_ his honeyed baritone breathed in her ear as she applauded the end of the band's first set.

"All means of escape are blocked, Mr Blythe!" she gave impassioned stage whisper, her darting glance having already taken in the available exits, now commandeered by half the townsfolk, most of whom they had already encountered.

"Ah, but I have insider knowledge, you know," he grinned unrepentantly. "Take a plate and a glass of punch, Anne-girl, and follow me. And _don't stop_ for anyone!"

Anne followed suit, nearly tripping over her long skirt in her haste, and barely avoiding a collision with an excitable young man pontificating to an unimpressed girl who turned to look at Gilbert passing with barely disguised interest. It fascinated Anne that he did not seem to quite understand the admiration he generated, nor the daggered looks of jealousy directed at her as his date for the evening. Gilbert led them out of the ballroom and to the left, which she knew housed the hall, with the famed dining room on the other side of the lower floor. It was dark in the room now, but the door had been left unlocked, and incredulous, Anne was ushered inside, to see rows of chairs set out for the next event, and more than enough light coming through the large windows, looking out onto the gardens from the verandah shared with the ballroom. Indeed they could hear the faint strains of the violinist employed during the band's recess, but to all intents and purposes they were intriguingly, enticingly alone.

Gilbert gestured to the chairs with a theatrical flourish, and then dragged over a little side table from near the stage on which to prop their refreshments.

"What would you have done if it was locked?" Anne asked, impressed.

"Hoisted you through the window, of course," he chuckled, and then flopped down on the chair next to her with exaggerated relief. "Ah… _that's_ better!"

Anne watched as he took out his hankerchief to pat the sheen at his brow.

"Gil – are you sure you're alright? You're not overdoing it?"

"I'm perfectly _fine,_ Anne," his eyes flashed at her fussing. "Just _frustrated._ And _famished."_

"The famished I can understand, but the frustrated?"

He turned to her, his voice lowering a touch suggestively. "Frustrated not to be spending enough time with _you,_ Anne," he explained, expelling a long breath. "It's not quite how I envisioned this evening… or completely what I promised." He held her gaze for several beats, and she felt her cheeks flare, the heat lighting her throat all the way down to her pink enamel heart. "I underestimated your fatal allure, of course."

"I think you rather underestimated your _own,_ Gilbert," she tried to laugh, but the sound was a shaky quiver. "And I am having a lovely evening. _More_ than lovely."

"I'm glad," he seemed to allow himself a smile.

"Though I _do_ feel like I'm rather an impediment to your adoring public getting their hands on you."

He gave disaffected growl. "You are not impediment, Anne, you are clearly _protection._ You are the only thing standing between me and the marauding hordes."

She gave a more confident, tinkling laugh in reply. "And how am I meant to do that, Gil? Those matrons and misses are vicious. You should see the looks I've been getting!"

His smile was characteristically smug. "Then we have no choice but to barricade ourselves in here, for the foreseeable future. Think you could put up with me for such an extended period?"

 _I'd put up with you forever…_ the thought almost burst out of her. Infact she perhaps had inadvertently opened her mouth to speak it, because his gaze dropped to her lips in anticipation, but then he rescued her with an insistence that they eat while they had the chance, and employed themselves thoroughly to that end.

He ate with gusto, she was pleased to note, whilst keeping up a steady stream of amusing asides about his dance partners thus far, working assiduously to make her laugh as he always had done. How she had missed his rich vein of wry humour. Roy could never see a joke the way that Gilbert could, and it wasn't his fault of course… but then, Christine didn't seem the sort of girl to revert to silliness either, and that suddenly made her sad, because something essential would be lost about Gilbert if he couldn't poke and prod now and again, and invite you to do the same in return.

"Ah, Anne… I had you in the palm of my hand there, and now I've just lost you… what were you thinking, just now?"

"How I've missed this. Us joking together," she answered baldly.

He seemed surprised by the admission, and his eyes darkened as he processed it.

"I have, too, Anne-girl," he replied quietly.

She tried her best to meet his smoky gaze, but found herself unable to hold his thoughtful look for long, particularly when he took her hand again and cradled it between his large ones.

"Anne, I – " he began, and then was startled by the romantic lull of the fiddler replaced by the band tuning up ahead of their next set.

Her eyes snapped back to his, and saw such longing there she was this time unable to pull away. She waited, breathless, for him to finish his thought, but he shook his curly head as if to clear it, and gave her a crooked half smile.

"Do we risk the _hordes_ after all, Miss Shirley?" he asked.

She nodded slowly, watching as Gilbert repositioned their table and stacked their dishes for some surprised staff member to discover in the morning. Otherwise all remained undisturbed, including the stage, and she gave it a smile as of an old friend before taking her dance card to scan it idly.

"Ready for an encore, then?" Gilbert had stepped up onto the stage himself now, and he accompanied his question with a cheeky grin and arms spread wide in challenge.

"Yes…" she said slowly, her mouth dry. "But not… for poetry."

He looked at her quizzically, his lips paused in a half smile.

"What is it, Anne?" he jumped down nimbly at the uneasy expression on her face.

"It's just that the first dance of the next set… it's a waltz, Gil." She swallowed, the blood beginning to thunder in her head. "It's… _our_ waltz."

She meant their aborted waltz from the dance after Convocation, of course; the one she had denied him, in a move that was shameful in its petulance and pettiness, and something that still burned her cheeks to remember. They burned now, particularly as the beginnings of the same music as that other time sounded faintly through the walls to them, and the range of emotions that passed fleetingly across his face might haunt her forever.

" _Our_ waltz, then," he finally smiled, his deep voice grown gravelly, and in two long strides he was before her, giving her a look of such new intensity she felt it in her marrow. There was none of the boyish lightheartedness of moments ago; infact there was no trace of the boy at all. Just Gilbert, as the man he was; tall and lean and strong and broad and dark and handsome and thankfully without a trace of the brooding melancholy she had once so desired, and which had no relationship with _real_ desire itself.

"Will you do me the honour, Anne?" he asked, voice remarkably composed, extending his hand.

"Y-yes thank you, Gilbert," she heard herself reply, thinking that now was most definitely not the time to consider a swoon.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

In all his days thereafter, grown so much more precious after the prospect of nearly losing them, he knew he would forever remember their dance, as a perfect moment filed away and safeguarded in his heart. Her beautiful face raised to his; of rosy cheeks and green dancing eyes, and pink lips parted as if perpetually seeking a breath. She stared up at him as she had lately begun to, with that lovely combination of awe and ardour and an awakened awareness of him, reinforced in the way her body trembled at his nearness, as they glided and twirled across the floor in sublime synchronicity.

He remembered little else about the evening, except he danced with her and she danced with him and the times they were not dancing with one another their eyes clung, and the longing to have her in his arms again was a fever of an entirely different kind. At some stage people began to disperse and they followed suit, and he was sure he said and did the right things but was quite insensible of the details, for he felt nothing but her small shudder as he helped her with her wrap and his fingers lingered long on her shoulders, and the urge to press his lips to the pulse at the back of her ear was a yearning both startling and sensational.

There might have been a moon or no moon on the long way back from White Sands but he couldn't remember and didn't care anyway. There was only the steady-stepping horse and the swaying of the buggy and the gravitational pull that made Anne finally give up and with a small sigh, settle herself into his side, and if his free arm came around her waist to hold her close there was no one to bleat about the impropriety of it, and they could go hang if they did.

Too soon they were to the gate of Green Gables, and then up the long drive, and to the house shrouded in darkness, but for the one light at the front door. All else was shadows and secrets and shared soft smiles.

"Do you think this is _scandalously late_ enough to arrive home?" Anne offered with a knowing smirk.

"I certainly hope so," he grinned, trying not to be distracted by the luminous look of her, or the way the enamel heart seemed to wink at him against the satin sheen of skin between throat and breast.

There was a long pause, then, neither awkward nor uncomfortable, but merely settling itself between them, as they hesitated to say goodbye.

"Here, Gil," Anne said suddenly, and then reached up to pluck something from his hair, fingers lingering infinitesimally before withdrawing. She held up a green leaf for his inspection.

"Oh, dear," he laughed. " _Please_ say that got stuck there on the way back and not the way over!"

"I can't rightly recall…" she teased airily.

"Any excuse to run your fingers through my hair again, Miss Shirley."

"That hair cut was a public service, Mr Blythe. They may not have let you in tonight, otherwise."

"Now, _that_ would have been a great shame. I don't know _what_ we would have done… otherwise."

She bit back her grin, and he bit back any more such audacious retorts, too nervous now to act properly around her, it seemed. There needed to be a goodbye between them, and soon, or various members of the household would surely come to investigate his malingering on their doorstep at all hours. He took a long, quiet breath, composing himself, but the question continued to beat at him.

 _Should he kiss her?_

It was clearly not a question of wanting to. It was not even a question of having the opportunity to. The _rightness_ of it was the question.

Would Anne welcome it?

He could offer no promise to her at this moment. He had yet to see Marilla, and he had no ring, and this wasn't the time or place to procure a proposal, with Mrs Lynde's face about to appear in the kitchen window at any moment, and possibly Marilla herself at the door, and the moths beginning to circle around them in shared affront.

A _kiss,_ however… a first kiss… would be the perfect end to the evening. And yet…

The more he dithered, the more their companionable silence became uneasy.

"Anne – "

"Gil – "

"Sorry, Anne. Ladies first."

She contemplated him with an expression at once wistful and wondering.

"Thank you, Gil, so very much. For tonight. I had a truly wonderful time. I'll treasure the memory of it, always."

"Thank _you,_ Anne…" the words caught in his throat. How to express what tonight had meant, for _him?_ And dare he say it – for _them?_ "I'll treasure it, likewise, I promise you."

Her smile at that was both exultation and invitation, and it trapped the breath in his chest; lodged somewhere under his diaphragm, slicing sharply.

If he… if he were to… to bend his head, and to just…

There was a clatter from inside the house, and the noise echoed like thunder in the stillness. They both jumped as scalded cats, and might have laughed through the moment, but for the dread realisation of what that noise meant, and whom it might unexpectedly herald.

Anne whipped her head towards the house and then back to him.

"Goodnight, Gil!" she squeaked, and then he felt soft lips on his cheek; a darting brush of butterfly wings, resting for a second and then fluttering off.

She was through the door and had it closed behind her before he barely knew what had happened.

 _Well,_ he gulped to himself, putting a palm to his cheek as any blushing schoolboy. _Trust the girl with the slate to sort him out._

And like the time, years and years ago, when he was forgiven that long-lamented transgression, he felt _all of heaven opened before_ him. *****

Grinning, marvelling, he stumbled down the steps and towards the buggy, silently saluting the house and all its occupants, eyes lingering on the movement of the curtain at the window of a certain little east gable room.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

 _And having ended on a canon quotation, it is now time to return to canon… with many additional and augmented scenes! There is still a little way to go in this story, I'm delighted to say, but not so very long before certain events have a familiar feel…_

 _As for that butterfly kiss... well, I caved. Just a little. Gilbert has still not kissed Anne, let's remember. I am trying to be very, very good. I acknowledge everyone who has been as frustrated on this score as I have been. Or, obviously, Gilbert._

 _*Anne of the Island_ (Ch 26)

** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 33)

***Carolina Oliphant, Baroness Nairne _The Maiden's Vow,_ noted as the poem Anne recites (though I have a fondness for the Sullivan series choosing _The Highwayman,_ and I think so too does _CahillA!)_

****from _Bingen on the Rhine_ by Caroline Elizabeth Norton. A classic line from a classic poem, and perhaps the byline I need for one of my other stories, _Betwixt the Stars…_

***** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 3)


	10. Chapter 10 Leaping

**Author's Note:**

 _Dear Anne-girls_

 _A belated Happy New Year to you all._

 _I'm sorry to have posted this chapter and then taken it down. I've never done that before. I wrote some comments in my last author's note that I thought had been misinterpreted._

 _I referred to some tongue-in-cheek new year resolutions that I had posted at the top of my last Betwixt the Stars chapter, which were meant to be a little humorous but also a little true, and referred to them and wrote some comments here in the same ironic tone, but when I read it back it read as flippant and uncaring -ie I'll get to your thank yous and reviews when I'm able, end of. It was all about not beating myself up about it anymore, and you are probably sick of hearing about it anyway... and so, I saw my note in a new light, and, er … beat myself up._

 _That's what happens when you are feeling a little too fragile! And take this all, sometimes, a little too seriously. A friend here once reminded me this is meant to be fun._

 _If anyone read the previous introduction to this chapter and thought it was a bit rich, sorry for the bad wording, and it certainly wasn't my intention to offend, if I did._

 _My intention wasn't to blather any longer in these author's notes and look what has happened._

 _I'll stop writing and get to Anne and Gilbert now, which I probably should have done the first time._

 _Love and thanks_

 _MrsVonTrapp x_

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Leaping**

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

"Anne Shirley, what is the meaning of this?" Marilla asked, as exasperated now as she had been over any number of Anne's youthful exploits, from green hair to drowned mice. "We'll want to be leaving in ten minutes!"

"Marilla! I can't go to church today!" Anne wailed as if she might still be a woebegone pre-pubescent. "I'm sure I could pray as expertly here. I might indeed need the intervention."

"For mercy's sake, Anne! I fear I have one of my headaches coming on! I am relying on you to help Rachel with the twins!"

"Oh, they'll be good as gold," Anne dismissed. "But you'll need someone to stay and look after you then, Marilla," Anne offered hopefully. "You might need tending to."

"If Anne can say home then can I?" Davy ducked his flaxen head in the door, but was promptly shooed off by Rachel Lynde, come to see what all the fuss and delay was about. Davy was directed downstairs to help assist the hired man with the horse and buggy, which left Marilla and Rachel in the doorway to Anne's room, bothered and bewildered alternatively.

"Well, of course this comes from staying out with Gilbert Blythe till all hours," Rachel huffed knowingly, as only the mother of ten children had leave to do. "No wonder you look peaky this morning, Anne. Though if Gilbert makes it to church himself having the doctor's full clearance now, I very much doubt he'd care if you had a bag stuck over your head."

"I can't face Gilbert!" Anne quailed, shaking her currently unencumbered head furiously for emphasis. "Considering I made such a terrible idiot of myself!"

"Nonsense!" Rachel interjected. "Things looked perfectly fine last night when he dropped – I mean collected you - for the dance. _More_ than fine!"

"Did you quarrel?" Marilla interrupted anxiously.

"No! Nothing of the sort! It was a magical evening, just delightful! And then I had to ruin it, with… with... some schoolgirl impulsivity!" Anne reddened magnificently, large grey eyes silently imploring Marilla with the unspoken language of a decade of growing understanding, and the last few weeks of a touching shared sympathy.

A fleeting look of panic passed Marilla Cuthbert's lined face, softened now by the years spent in the loving, often unpredictable presence of this girl. She whispered fervently to Rachel Lynde beside her, whose eyes grew rounder with each word, before that redoubtable lady hustled out to move along the twins, giving Anne a firm nod and a reminder of time marching as she did.

"Marilla…" Anne faltered.

"Now, Anne," Marilla found herself rubbing at her temples, fearing a headache _would_ come on now all the same. "Really, what is all this stuff and nonsense? You know you must go to church. It's a terrible message to send the twins if you refuse to go on a whim."

Marilla settled herself carefully on the bed beside Anne, who sat up with a sigh to make room for her.

"I don't mean to be childish, Marilla," she admitted, low-voiced. "I've just embarrassed myself again, that's all, and don't know how I might face him."

"Gilbert? What terrible crime have you committed now?"

"I… I… _kissed_ him!" Anne admitted in dread tones, flushing anew profusely.

Marilla blinked blue eyes rapidly. "Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?"

"Oh, the pair of you, honestly…" Marilla looked like she might well chuckle, or at the very least smirk.

"Marilla! You don't understand! It was a terrible gaffe, and I've made such a fool of myself!"

"I hardly think Gilbert will think so. And _what_ makes you think I wouldn't _understand?_ " those thin lips quirked at the corners, and she gave an eyebrow raise to boot. "You forget I was once courted by a Blythe myself, Anne Shirley."

Anne looked like she wanted to refute the idea of _courting,_ in relation to Gilbert, but was clearly too accosted by the idea of young Marilla kissing John Blythe.

"Mr Blythe?" Anne's grey eyes were agog. " _K-kissing?"_

"Frequently," Marilla offered unrepentantly, with something of a gleam in her eye. "And often _amorously_. So if Gilbert is anything like his father, then – "

"Gilbert hasn't kissed _me,_ Marilla! That's just the point! I thought he might, but he… we… well, then, I kissed _him_. A peck really. On the cheek. Well, not even a _peck,_ more like – "

"Anne! For goodness' sake! You're fretting over a kiss on the cheek?"

Anne was speechlessly abashed.

"Well, he might be John's son, but he has more than enough of Ella in him, obviously," Marilla remarked with exasperated huff. "Both of you have always overthought things, worrying them from every possible angle. Rachel would say it comes of having too many brains and too little common sense. And none of this is helping you get to church on time. What message will _that_ send to the Blythes?"

"Do you think Gil will be there? I'd much rather see him privately than in a crowd with everyone looking on…"

Marilla's expression became shuttered. "Anne, whether he is there today or not is _his_ concern, not your own. We need you to please remember your responsibilities, come down this instant and accompany your family to church."

"Yes, Marilla," Anne acquiesced, shamefacedly, not daring to provoke further stern reaction. She shimmied off the bed and stood forlornly by the glass in a way that would make Davy impressed, straightened her skirt and blouse, and took a hat from the stand, pinning it in place unseeingly. "I hope you have a good rest while we are away."

" _Rest is unlikely…"_ Marilla muttered under her breath, watching her beloved girl troop despondently down the stairs she had fairly glided down the previous evening. " _But I need you_ away, _love, at any rate."_

Marilla Cuthbert did not draw breath again until Anne was safely in the buggy, wedged between Rachel and Dora, Davy directing their horse at a firm trot towards town.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

John Blythe thumped downstairs to the now-familiar sights and smells of his wife plying their son with a full cooked breakfast, though there would hardly be enough time to digest the generous helpings on hand before they did it all again for their midday meal.

"Am I to be saved any?" he chuckled, as Ella beamed and their boy dreamed at the table, having paused over his eggs mid-forkful to relive some magical memory of the previous night that had him staring into space, a small smile playing about his lips. John and Ella gave fond perusal to this distracted figure, with a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head respectively, and he lost no time in planting a passionate kiss on his wife's waiting lips, having some memories of his own to reflect upon whilst Gilbert had spent a long evening away at White Sands.

"And so, son, are you off with us to church today? There's so many been asking after you. I can scarcely walk down the main street in less than a quarter hour at the moment for being stopped by a Sloane or a Bell or an Andrews."

Gilbert snapped out of his reverie, hazel eyes flicking from his father seating himself opposite, to his mother refilling his tea.

"I hoped to visit Diana and the baby, now that Dr Spencer gave me the official all clear…" Gilbert hedged, mind whirring almost visibly. "And I… planned… to see Miss Cuthbert, this morning. She herself promised she was going to stay behind from the service."

John and Ella exchanged a loaded look, and the latter retraced her steps to deposit the kettle back on the range.

"Anything you need to tell us, Gil?" John questioned carefully.

The flush found Gilbert, though his look was reassuringly wry. "Nothing yet."

"You mean to ask Marilla's blessing?" Ella Blythe found her voice.

"Yes…" Gilbert paused. "Although… I would like to know I have yours, first."

The question was directed at his mother, and they all knew it.

Ella Blythe looked again to her husband, who gave her an encouraging nod and then upped and rounded the table, clapping his son on the back, and nearly dislodging Gilbert's current mouthful in the process.

"Of course you have our blessing, you great lump!"

"Thanks, Dad," Gilbert coughed into his napkin, recovering his breath to smile, which faded as he observed his mother carry herself upstairs. His bewildered hazel eyes shot to his father, reseating himself and buttering his toast in nonplussed fashion, and his own breakfast now churned inside his stomach. If his mother was still somehow disappointed in Anne and couldn't forgive what she saw as past transgressions, could he really have a future with her? Could he face the fight to claim one woman he loved whilst upsetting and alienating the other?

"Dad…" Gilbert faltered. "Ma. Is she…?"

A light, firm tread on the stairs signalled her return, and Gilbert watched his mother come back towards him, his heart fluttering trepidatiously. She carried both her hat for church and a small box, and she deposited both on the table before seating herself between the men in her life. John Blythe took a gulp of tea, grabbed at a slice of buttered toast and muttered about seeing to the horse, giving his wife a quick squeeze on the shoulder and his son a wink before exiting stage left. Gilbert swung his attention back to his mother, trying to decipher the firm, resolute look she wore on her still-fine features, which had reclaimed their gentle beauty in the weeks following his recovery.

"Ma…" Gilbert set his plate aside, prepared if needed to fight his corner. "I've been wanting to talk to you about – "

"Gilbert John Blythe!" Ella interrupted impatiently. "There really isn't the time for you to state your case regarding Anne, though I'm sure you would articulate it passionately, and love, knowing you, even _reasonably…_ " her look gave way to indulgent smile, which turned wry as she saw how her son was wrong-footed. "I know you love her, Gilbert. And for what it's worth, and goodness only knows she's taken her sweet time about it, I believe she loves you, too."

There were few occasions in life where Ella Blythe had wanted to stop time, but the look of utter astonishment on her darling son's handsome visage was one she would have delighted to linger on.

"Ma… I… I…" Gilbert interjected with inarticulate splutter, which rather put paid to the previous assertion.

"Gilbert, if you'll do me the courtesy, love, to please just wait until I've finished. I need to say my piece, and then I will never speak of it again."

Gilbert swallowed slowly. "Alright, Ma."

Ella took a breath, and then a long sip of tea.

"I didn't think I would ever forgive Anne Shirley for refusing you…" Ella began with a painful directness that made Gilbert wince involuntarily. "I couldn't believe that after all you had shared – and let's face it, all you had done for her – that she could be so foolish as to not see what was right in front of her, and what everyone else – including Marilla and Rachel Lynde, I'll have you know – could see as plain as day. That you were a match for one another, and a rare one at that."

Ella paused, and Gilbert felt a tremble pass through him. He had to grip his own tea with tight fingers to remind himself not to speak.

"So when the whispers of conjecture started to reach us…" his mother continued quietly, "I dismissed them as idle talk. What would anyone know about it, ahead of we ourselves? But you never spoke of it, and came home so down, and then we knew.

I was furious, and desperately heartbroken for you, love, and I was, quite honestly, rather sorry for myself. I had embraced Anne, too. I could remember her more times than I could count seated with you at this very table, your heads bent together, setting the world to rights. I liked her fire and her spirit; it kept you on your toes. I never wanted some simpering miss for you, but someone who would be your equal, and a daughter I could love as well as my own…" At this she blinked back sudden tears, and Gilbert's hand reached out to clutch hers.

"Ma, I…"

"Shush. Let me finish now or I never will. So… your father adored her, of course, and defended her to the hills, and that got my goat good and proper, because I was sure he was only defending her as Marilla's girl. At any rate, I would have nothing to do with her, and froze her out whenever I might encounter her in the village, particularly when it seemed she was keeping company with some high and mighty Kingsport fellow. I'm not proud of that, Gilbert, but I must own to it. But I rationalised it didn't matter, because you had all your wonderful plans; you would go on to become a fine doctor, and build a fine life for yourself, and you didn't need her. Only, that was my mistake, of course, because you did. You always did. And you still do."

There was a heavy silence, and Ella patted Gilbert's hand before redirecting her own to her tea.

Gilbert found himself flushing. "Yes, Ma. You're right. The last two years were terrible, for me. Not, in the end, because she said no… but because I spent those two years without Anne really being a part of them."

Ella nodded, even as her son struggled with his next thought.

"Dad told me that I called for her, in… in my fever, and not for you. I'm sorry, Ma."

Ella gave a wavering ghost of a smile in reply. "I could never blame you for that, darling. Shamefully… I think I blamed _her._ "

Gilbert had suspected as much, but his bright hazel eyes – his mother's eyes - still widened to hear it. Ella colored at her revelation.

"And _now?_ " he pressed, his question a strangled sound.

"And now…" Ella sighed, before looking at him almost imploringly, "how could I blame the girl who needed a second chance, the way I was given? Who needs _you_ as much as you need _her?_ I saw her face that first morning after your fever had broken and you were out of danger, Gilbert. It was like… looking in a mirror, to my own pain and regret and desperation. No woman was going to have a look like _that_ and not be in love with you."

Ella paused, hazel eyes trained on the boy turned man who carried all the best of her and John in him.

"I hurt your father, Gilbert, when I said _no_ the first time, and then I scorned Anne for doing what I had done, because it made me reconsider my own actions… I still don't feel it was wrong to say no, for it wasn't the right time, for your Dad and I… but I am ever grateful that I had another chance to say _yes._ And Anne deserves that chance, too."

"Oh, Ma – thank you!" Gilbert launched himself at her, as he had done all those years ago on his return from Alberta, before he had remembered himself, nearly fourteen and beyond the outward need for hugs, if not quite the internal desire. But he was man enough to admit, now, the power and pleasure of an embrace, and his strong Blythe arms engulfed his mother with a need for it himself, as well as for her. Ella laughed joyously, for perhaps the first time since his return to them, or perhaps maybe really for the first time since she had snubbed Anne Shirley in the street, and then cried about it after.

"Well, look what happens the moment a man's back is turned!" John came in through the back door, chuckling at the heartening sight of his wife and their son. "D'you think Anne'll like it, then?"

" _Like it?_ " Gilbert queried through a brilliant smile, extracting himself from their hug, his eyes as suspiciously moist as his mother's.

"Oh, we hadn't quite gotten to that part," Ella laughed again, almost giddily, wiping at the corner of her eyes, and the sound made her husband's heart stutter, in similar vein to the _second_ time he had asked her a certain question.

"Well, right, then," John gave her a soft look that might have belonged to his son, lately, in contemplation of Anne. "In your own time, love. Though I'd be grateful for some eggs of my own while I'm waiting in anticipation."

Ella heaped a mountainous serving onto his plate, planting a kiss at his handsome, weathered brow for good measure, and then turned back to Gilbert, handing over the box.

"Here, darling, from both of us. It was my mother's. We won't have you going empty-handed to Anne. And we won't have you using all your savings, either. Take it directly to her, if you think she'll like it, or go up to Charlottetown and use it to buy her something different. Do either with our love. _And_ our blessing."

Incredulous, Gilbert opened the small box, and inside it a smaller one still, of navy velvet, its casing slightly worn with time and age, and the creak as he prised the lid open reminded him, appropriately enough he was to find, of an oyster, reluctant to give up its prize.

Inside, against a satin sapphire sea there sat a delicate gold band, upon which perched a perfect circlet of pearls; luminous as Anne's complexion in the moonlight, and lovely in both its sheen and simplicity. Gilbert swallowed in awed admiration, dumbstruck and overcome. He had not allowed himself many thoughts as to rings; knowing vaguely of Anne's disliking of diamonds (helpfully confirmed in Phil's letter) he instead had ruminated on a ruby, meditated on a moonstone, and agonised over an emerald, but nothing felt like it _belonged_ to her. _This_ did.

"I know they say _pearls are for tears,_ love," his mother broke into his reverie, mistaking his silence for uncertainty, but – "

"No, Ma," he replied fiercely, "it's beautiful, and utterly perfect. If I know anything about Anne at all, it's that she will love it, and how it came to her. I'm honoured to present it to her. Thank you. I can't say thank you, enough, to you both. For this. For your support. For… everything."

A single tear tracked Gilbert's cheek, and then he chuckled wryly and joked about the prophesy coming true.

His parents embraced him either side, and they stood for a moment; a still-life of _family,_ feeling on the cusp of that notion changing shape and definition for all of them.

"Well, Gil, you'd best be off to Marilla, then," John reminded. "Good luck with that. I'll say a prayer or two for you in church, then, shall I?" he gave cheeky wink, which earned him a dig in the ribs from his wife.

There was a scurry to clean up quickly before the Blythes parted; his parents to church, and Gilbert to Green Gables. His long strides took him there with new purpose; his pocket heavy with the ring as promise, and his parents' well wishes carried with him as of a prayer.

XXXXX

Marilla Cuthbert met him at the door without ceremony.

"Gilbert! Welcome!" she smiled, in that way of hers which always seemed enigmatic, when directed at him.

"Thank you, Miss Cuthbert, sincerely, for seeing me."

"Not at all. I have the tea ready. Please come on through."

The plain kitchen table was nicely laid with the second-best china, and he was glad of that, not wanting Marilla to think of him, today of all days, as a stranger conducting a polite call, but almost as… family. His heart and stomach were too full to eat, though he would have shovelled in anything presented to him in an effort to please, but the tea was a welcome relief, both to his parched throat and as distraction from his mission. He made inane enquiries as to everyone's health, and Marilla offered some perfunctory questions about the dance at White Sands, and then they both stalled, looking at the other expectantly.

In the silence even his jangling knee sounded as if a hammer.

"Miss Cuthbert, I want to begin first by offering you an apology," he finally blurted.

"Apology?" those blue eyes widened.

"Yes. I am referring back to... that is to my… _conduct,_ two years ago. You see, and I'm sure that you did, in time… that I proposed. To Anne. During our second year at Redmond. She… she… well, she refused me, as she had every right to do. It was a genuine proposal, but somewhat… ill-considered, on my part, and certainly, on reflection, ill-timed. I'm very sorry you never heard of it directly, from me, or that I never communicated to you my intentions."

"Gilbert…" Marilla's face had softened, though there was something in that wide, slightly downturned mouth he couldn't decipher. "You owe no apology, though I accept it willingly. It cannot have been an easy thing to go through. And the time… after," she alluded, meaningfully.

"No, indeed," he nodded, distance and more dire circumstances since enabling him to consider that time thoughtfully, now, and to take on board the lessons learned.

"With that in mind, Miss Cuthbert," he cleared his throat, feeling as if his entire heart had stuffed itself down his oesophagus, "I would like to do things properly, this time. I must tell you that I love Anne. I love her with everything in me, and always have done, and I have reason to believe… that is, I have hope that her… feelings… are the same. Or that, more accurately, they have changed. And that my intention is to ask for her hand. And to ask… to ask… for your blessing."

Gilbert had occasionally mused upon the circumstances around his father's relationship with Marilla Cuthbert, and how he had once come to love her. Although Gilbert found her to be a worthy woman and wonderful in having adopted and raised Anne, earning his eternal gratitude, he had always puzzled a little at what his father had seen in her. It had always seemed a little unlikely. So he was wholly unprepared for his suit to be met with a golden smile that lit her lined face, transforming her features from cloud to sunbeam. In a moment she morphed from matriarch to maiden, clasping her hands together in unbridled joy; the stern shell fell away, and Gilbert glimpsed the merry girl she might have been, and finally understood.

"Gilbert! Oh, Gilbert – you don't know how happy that news makes me!"

"Thank you, Miss Cuthbert!" he gave a delighted, relieved smile.

"And of course you have my blessing! You had it years ago. And Mrs Lynde would more than echo those sentiments. And certainly… Matthew."

"Well, that means a great deal," Gilbert paused momentarily to remember the kind, soft-spoken (and rarely-spoken) man Anne remembered so fondly. And _then_ he remembered Mrs Lynde. "I wouldn't wish, however, for any news of my intentions to pre-empt my asking Anne…" he worried.

"Not a bit of it. We will stay silent here until you're ready."

"Thank you. I am hoping to ask very soon, in the next day or so. Regrettably, we don't have a lot of the summer left to us."

"No, unfortunately not."

"And I must assure you, Miss Cuthbert, that even though I have years of medical school ahead, I will never lose sight of my goal; to provide Anne with the very best I can offer at the end of it. I'll strive to save for a comfortable home for us, and will secure the very best living I can."

Again, that smile; fond and almost bemused at his earnestness, now. "I know you will. And so will Anne know it, too."

Conscious of time and of the other residents due to return, Gilbert rose dazedly, not quite believing it had all gone so well.

"Of course, this is all supposing Anne says yes _this_ time," he felt almost secure enough to joke about it now.

Marilla's blue eyes magnificently twinkled, and her expression was very droll; lips pressed together as if stemming the tide of all sorts of revelations, lest they burst forth.

"I believe I have every faith in her, in this respect," was all she would allow herself.

"Well, thank you so very much, Miss Cuthbert," Gilbert shook her hand warmly. "I hope to see you again very soon."

"And _you,_ Gilbert Blythe," Marilla Cuthbert saw off the tall, intelligent, striking young man. She noted the same firm, long-legged stride that had once quickened her heart, half a lifetime ago, and might have paused to muse on the peculiarity of Providence, only the dishes needed doing.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

"How are you, Marilla?" Anne rushed in, to see Marilla placidly finishing up at the kitchen sink. "Oh, you should have been resting, not working!"

"I'm fine, Anne. All the better for having a quiet morning, I expect." Marilla saw an enquiring eyebrow arch upwards as she exchanged an unseen look with Rachel, and nodded her head once, making her long-time neighbour, now housemate, puff out her not inconsiderable bosom in unexpressed pleasure, though she could not contain a purse-lipped smile of Lynde smugness.

"What passage was the sermon taken from, Anne?" Marilla tried to divert attention. "I'd like to read back over it, later."

"Oh, Marilla, I'm afraid I don't remember…" Anne fussed with Dora's apron in her distraction, directing Davy not to have his shoes on the clean floor and studiously avoiding the knowing gaze of the two older ladies.

"We were told Gilbert Blythe was not at church as he wanted to call on the young Wrights and see the baby," Rachel explained, studied tone heavy with meaning.

"Well, then, all's well, is it not, Anne?"

"I guess so…" she sighed. "The Blythes were certainly very nice and chatted for quite a few minutes this morning. Even Mrs Blythe," Anne added in sombre tone.

"Will you go over to Diana's yourself later, Anne?" Rachel prompted hopefully.

"I don't think so… I have Alice's wedding and I've no idea what to wear… and I owe a great many letters… I might just take everything downstairs here and sit in the sunlight for the afternoon…" Her dejected air made it an almost mournful proposition.

"And that way you won't happen to miss any of your _own_ visitors…" Rachel nodded sagely, choosing to ignore Marilla's exasperated look of warning.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

" _Gilbert!"_ Diana Wright all but squeezed the life out of him in greeting, which was no small feat considering she also clutched a red-faced, fat little fellow in the crook of her arm. "You gave us the fright of our lives! Don't _ever_ do that again!"

"I won't if I can help it. Hello, there, Diana, and congratulations. I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier. I wanted to be completely sure it was safe for the baby."

"Oh, Gil… we've so missed seeing you." She only relinquished him in part, still clutching his hand in her soft one.

"And I've missed you, Di. You are looking wonderful!" The happy blush of motherhood had added further lustre to Diana's rosy-cheeked loveliness.

That drew a dazzling smile. "Come and sit down and I'll get the tea on."

Gilbert followed her into the pleasantly appointed kitchen of Lone Willow Farm, watching her juggling baby Fred with the expertise innate, it seemed, to all new mothers, and would have managed everything well enough with one hand, only Gilbert gestured that he would take the infant, considering if he was actually going to greet them as they came into the world in the future he might as well get used to seeing them up close.

"Well, he's lovely, Diana," he felt leave to comment, thinking this a safe enough gambit on first appraisal. "And pretty healthy, from the weight of him. Well done to you."

Diana glowed. "And well done to _you_ as well, Gil. I have it on good authority you were skin and bones nigh on a month ago. I can't believe how well you look now."

"That's good of you, Di. I was a ghastly sight, that's for sure. I'm glad at least you were spared t _hat_ much. Though it does, thankfully, all seem like a long time ago, now. So much has happened since."

It was an innocent enough remark, meant to encompass Diana's own dramatic change in circumstances as much as anything, but his old school friend, ever sharper than she was usually given credit for, raised a dark eyebrow in conjecture, her smile soft and knowing.

"Yes, it has…" she agreed, dark eyes raking over him.

Gilbert turned his attention back to the placid young man who had obviously inherited his father's propensity for sleeping anywhere he lay his head; and from what he could observe, his looks as well as his name, which was obviously more of a mixed blessing.

"So who do you think he looks like?" Diana urged as she brought over the tea, and Gilbert hardly fancied being caught like a fly in the web of this seemingly casual question.

"Well, I find him very like his father…" he grinned the obvious, patting his rump through his swaddling, and then remembered Anne's words, in a flash of inspiration, "but he seems like he has your mouth, Di."

Diana beamed at this, offering a slice of cake for him in reward.

Fred came in not long after, to find the beautiful tableaux of his contented wife, happy son and healthy friend, seated in his own kitchen, and with full heart considered he wanted for nothing else in this world.

Except for possibly…

"Hey there, Gil!" Fred gave delighted, gentle greeting, having long accustomed his gruffer tones to their new domestic arrangements. "Glad you could make it over to see us. And I see young Fred approves."

"It seems Gilbert's a natural," Diana grinned leadingly, lifting her face for her husband's kiss.

"It sure does," Fred smiled widely, taking his cue, and the pair of them turned to face him speculatively.

Gilbert rolled his eyes at their obviousness, feeling his ring burn a hole in his pocket. If he hinted so much as a snippet of his intentions in front of Diana he'd hardly have to worry about Mrs Lynde; Diana would have the news over to Green Gables in an instant, and if still unable to do it in person might just resort to signalling by candlelight as she and Anne had been wont to do when still schoolgirls.

"Well, he's a fine little fellow…" Gilbert attempted his ruse, wondering aloud as to whether the young chap's eye color would take after his father's or darken as of his mother's, but it seemed neither Wright was having it.

"How was the dance at White Sands, Gilbert?" Diana now pressed, taking baby Fred back so that Gilbert might gulp his tea, her boldness fortified by her husband's presence.

"The dance was very pleasant, thank you," Gilbert countered blandly.

"Do you have any plans to take Anne out again?" Diana asked in desperation.

"No immediate plans, thanks, Diana." Gilbert grinned.

Diana all but scowled as Fred chuckled at his obtuse answers.

"What say we take a wander and I show you what we've done with the back fields?" Fred offered by way of rescue to his friend.

"Sounds good," Gilbert nodded, snaffling his slice of cake and pausing at the door Fred had just come through to give Diana a cheeky, charming salute.

"I can't believe I wore out my knees praying for you, Gilbert Blythe!" Diana called out after him in frustration.

XXXXX

"If you don't give me some news, Gil, I'll be made to pay for it later," Fred shook his head, smiling in chagrin, the two men seated on twin hay bales, only having gotten as far as the other side of the barn.

"Will Diana send you to bed without any supper?" Gilbert smirked, but Fred's grimace told a different story.

"A wife has _ways,_ Gilbert, to winkle information out of you, believe me. When you're a married man, you'll know it."

Gilbert's smirk of smugness died a quick death. "How so?" he was almost afraid to ask.

"Well surely these past weeks you've gotten close enough to Anne to get a hint of it?" Fred raised an eyebrow.

Gilbert took a long time contemplating his hands. "We… that is, Anne and I… we haven't started from the same place that you and Diana did, Fred. We've had to become friends again, first, and learn to trust and to communicate and…"

"… and worry things into next week," Fred shook his head in despair. "Honestly, Gil, sometimes I don't believe you were ever raised on a farm at all!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "You make me sound like a babe in the woods."

"Nah. Just not quite knowing what you're in for. You're passionate and Anne's passionate. Surely you've had a few interesting encounters already?"

Gilbert flushed. "Anne and I have _always_ had _interesting encounters_."

Fred's perfectly plain face broke on its bemusement. "I am _not_ talking debating at Redmond, you pillock."

Gilbert blew out a frustrated breath. "What changed, for you and Di? When was the moment?"

Fred gave this weighty question due consideration. "I can pretty much pinpoint it to when I first kissed her."

"And this was before or after you were engaged?"

Fred looked askance in his direction. "Gil, I haven't your looks or charm or brains. Apart from my own blundering ardour and enthusiasm I hadn't much else to recommend me. Of course it was _before._ I think she'd hardly have said _yes_ otherwise!"

Gilbert gave a comical frown at this news.

"Then I really _am_ in for it! I hope to do both at the same time!"

"You mean to tell me you have been in love with Anne for years, four of them with her in Kingsport, proposed to her once already, and spent the last month in her almost exclusive company, and you _still_ haven't kissed her?" Fred seemed suspiciously in tone and demeanour to be holding back a laugh.

"That's about the size of it," Gilbert sighed deeply.

Fred elbowed him in the ribs. "Good luck with it all then, Gil. You are in for a world of pleasure - _and_ pain. And don't worry about any great secret getting out. Diana would never believe any of it even if she _did_ manage to get it out of me."

* * *

Gilbert parted from the Wrights; their domestic felicity causing a dull throb of longing in his chest. Would he and Anne enjoy the same comfort and intimacy, the same affectionate accord, as Fred and Diana? Jo and Phil Blake? Even his own parents? No one could know for sure. Marriage was a leap of faith; a communion of love and trust and hope. Gilbert could not quantify it with science, or prescribe the perfect blend of personality and circumstance. All he could do… was take the leap himself, and hold Anne's hand firmly in his as they jumped together.

Having talked about his future with Anne with everyone but the lady in question, he was suddenly seized by a desperation to see her; he ached to ask her now; to look into her eyes and know he was home, and home to her. The afternoon summer sun slanted down in sharp shards; he had been walking around in his second-best suit for hours now, and shrugged off his jacket, rolling up his shirt sleeves to boot. Anne had seen him in every mode of dress and every incarnation – even barely dressed in his sickbed – so he didn't worry about any informality now. He would come to her as his true self; embodying the memory of their rambles together; their past always informing their future.

A ramble in the woods? Back to their apple tree? Down the lane? Their echoes sounded all over this part of Avonlea, but where would be the perfect place? To ask her the question he hoped would be welcomed now; to say how he would lay down his life for her and her happiness; how he would strive every day to be the best possible version of himself in her sight.

He neared Green Gables and his heart quickened; not with trepidation, but with excitement, and the inevitability of the rightness of their union; of their long dance coming to a close. Or more perfectly, a new dance just about to begin.

 _"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through September woods and `over hills where spices grow,' this afternoon," said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner._ He found his inspiration in the sight of her, hitting upon the idea as he announced it. _"Suppose we visit Hester Gray's garden."_ *

 _Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly._ She had been thinking on the previous evening; of Gilbert's look to her as they danced; as they stood together in this very place, staring at one another as Time teased them; still wondering if the leap of lips to his cheek had been inspired or erroneous.

"Gilbert!" Anne breathed to his stuttering smile; in an instant they were back to that moment her mind had just drifted to.

"Hello, Anne," he greeted, one tanned forearm cradling his jacket, the other thrust into his pocket.

"We missed you at church!" she blurted in her surprise, her grey eyes looking to his imploringly.

"Yes… sorry about that. I had intended to go, but I thought God might forgive me my extended absence more quickly than baby Fred and Diana would."

Anne smiled fondly at mere mention of the little family. "And how did you find young Master Wright?"

"Red. Fat. Very contented."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So, what say you, Anne-girl?" he asked.

"Pardon?" Anne started.

"To my suggestion?"

"Suggestion?" Anne squeaked.

"A ramble together up to Hester Gray's."

Anne opened her mouth and closed it again, rather adorably, and Gilbert did indeed wonder how he could have gone all these years without kissing that mouth. His hand tightened around the little box in his pocket and his throat around the promise of his yet-delivered words.

 _"Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't, Gilbert."_ Anne succumbed to a great blush under his gaze, and a flustered flapping about with the material in her lap. " _I'm going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, you know. I've got to do something to this dress, and by the time it's finished I'll have to get ready. I'm so sorry. I'd love to go."_

Gilbert swallowed the regret he saw mirrored in her lovely face. Honestly, when had circumstances _not_ conspired to separate them? They would laugh about it someday, he hoped, settled in front of a roaring fire, his arm around her waist and her head on his shoulder, spinning the dreams they were on the cusp of dreaming together. He was so close to that moment he could almost taste it on his tongue.

 _"Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert, apparently not much disappointed._

Her bottom lip trembled as she studied him. _"Yes, I think so."_

His heart calmed. _"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is to be married tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne - Phil's, Alice's, and Jane's. I'll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding."_

At the mere talk of weddings, Anne's cheeks rose in color again, though her reply was as determinedly merry as her tone.

 _"You really can't blame her when you think of the tremendous Andrews connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly hold them all. I was only bidden by grace of being Jane's old chum - at least on Jane's part. I think Mrs. Harmon's motive for inviting me was to let me see Jane's surpassing gorgeousness."_

 _"Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn't tell where the diamonds left off and Jane began?"_

 _Anne laughed._

"Yes, you'll remember I mentioned it weeks ago. _She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was VERY happy, and so was Mr. Inglis - and so was Mrs. Harmon."_

Gilbert tried, and failed, to see Anne herself buried under such a dazzling array of diamonds, and was heartened enormously.

 _"Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight?" asked Gilbert, looking down at the fluffs and frills._

 _"Yes. Isn't it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The Haunted Wood is full of them this summer."_

 _Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown, with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away._

 _"Well, I'll be up tomorrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight."_

"Thank you, Gilbert. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Not if I see you first, Carrots," he winked.

 _Anne_ smiled tremulously and _looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was friendly - very friendly - far too friendly. He had come_ so _often to Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship had returned,_ absolutely; strengthened and deepened and solidified, whereas over the past two years it had felt weightless and elusive. _But Anne no longer found it satisfying,_ grateful as she was for it. _The rose of love made the blossom of friendship pale_ and scentless by contrast.

 _And Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but friendship. In the common light of common day her radiant certainty of that rapt_ long-ago _morning_ after the storm _had faded,_ and Gilbert's easy affability just now made her question everything she had felt last night at the dance. _She was haunted by a miserable fear that her mistake could never be rectified._ Not merely her impulsive kiss, but allthe ways she had wronged him since she had first known him. He had forgiven her, but could he ever really forget? _It was quite likely that it was Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he was even engaged to her…_ Well, if not engaged, at the very least unable to wait until he arrived back in Kingsport and able to enjoy her company again, unencumbered by her own presence.

 _Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her heart, and reconcile herself to a future where work and ambition must take the place of love._ She was a BA now, and soon to be principal of Summerside High. _She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and the success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain editorial sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams. But - but - Anne picked up her green dress and sighed again._

She wandered back into the house, to find Marilla and Rachel looking at her with interest.

"Was that Gilbert Blythe just now?" Marilla asked with careful nonchalance.

"Yes…" Anne confirmed. "He asked to take a walk, but I have the dress to fix for the wedding, you know."

"You never sent Gilbert away just now, Anne Shirley?" Rachel's expression betrayed a mild horror at the prospect.

Anne looked, aghast, from matron to spinster. "Was it too rude of me? I didn't want to send him off, I really didn't, but how could I go with him and still get ready for tonight?"

"Just so, Anne…" Marilla soothed, casting a furtive look of thunder to Rachel. "Rachel, would you mind fetching my sewing basket? I think I have just the thread Anne will need for her dress."

Rachel's mouth puckered as if confronted by a lemon or three, and turned on her heel, muttering darkly to herself.

" _Was_ it wrong of me, Marilla?" Anne pleaded. "I can never seem to do the right thing where Gil's concerned! I explained about the wedding… the invitations were issued when he was sick, you see… He said he would call again tomorrow, but oh, I feel awful now!"

"Anne, don't fret."

"What if I… if I've…"

"If you've _what?_ "

"If I've pushed him away? I always seem to do that."

"Did he not say he was coming back tomorrow?"

"Yes…"

"And don't you have faith in him to do so?"

A hearty sigh. "Yes."

"Well then, Anne. Trust in Gilbert, and in his word. It's as true as his heart."

Grey-green eyes looked to her the same way they had looked when Marilla had announced Anne could stay at Green Gables; so full of hard-won hope, ever fearing what and whom she loved would be taken from her. Had it really been ten years ago?

And now, that sweet-souled scrap of a thing, girl no longer, was on the threshold of another life-altering exchange. She would cease belonging just to she and Matthew, and to this house; she would begin to be safeguarded by another, and find her future and her dreams and her happiness and her hope with him. This night was, perhaps, the last time Anne would belong fully to _her;_ and as much as Marilla Cuthbert had longed for this day, the bittersweet tang of her own revelation swept her up unexpectedly.

Anne reached up and kissed her cheek, flinging those still-slim arms around her neck and pressing briefly but lovingly.

Rachel was the one to note the tears in Marilla's eyes as she turned away, knowing something herself, may times over, of this betwixt time; when a daughter was not quite the daughter of yesterday but not yet the daughter of tomorrow. She directed Anne to the sewing basket with enthusiasm, and generously gifted a perfect little panel of lace that would do nicely for the bodice of the dress, receiving a kiss of her own in gratitude.

"You'd best be off to make yourself presentable for the Penhallows," Rachel decreed. "Goodness knows what sort of airs they are putting on, hosting a Sunday wedding. It's downright sacrilegious!"

Anne smiled and wisely made no reply, having learned to hold her tongue somewhat since her first exchange with Rachel Lynde, in the same way the widow had learned to soften hers. Marilla smiled too, though the action was rarer; realising through her love for this girl that she could have a smile on her face and have others see it and the world would not end. Marilla smiled delightedly when Anne came down the stairs in her lovely green dress of froth and fancy, as she and Rachel were enjoying their tea, and the smile was still on her face as she slipped into her dream later that night, of long-ago days and long-legged callers.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*Hello again, canon! All italicised passages taken, naturally, from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 41), with apologies for any liberties, additions and tweaks.


	11. Chapter 11 Dreaming

**Author's Note**

And HERE we ARE!

Am I dreaming myself? No, indeed. We have gotten here at last! The relief!

I had a smile on my face the entire time I was writing this, and I hope it brings a smile to yours. Thank you all for your magnificent reviews, follows and favourites - and I hope you can continue to follow this for a few more chapters, because...

KISSING. Just so much kissing to be had. ALL bets are off, now!

I tinkered with this chapter so much, trying to temper my tone and my text to that of our beloved Lucy Maud's, whilst still trying to honour my own wishes - and hopefully yours - in lingering a little longer with the newly-minted lovebirds. I hope you feel it works. There is definitely a touch of the Sullivan series in here, too, as many of you have already observed. I don't forget my first love! And luckily, neither has Gilbert x

With very best wishes,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 **Dreaming**

* * *

 _When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him_ with an eager smile, leaping up from the step with enthusiasm as soon as she saw his longed-for face _,_ looking herself as _fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the preceding night._ *

"Hello, Anne! Where's our reception committee today? I'm too used to about a dozen eyes on us whenever I call," he grinned, not at all disappointed to find her the lone resident available to welcome him.

"Hello, Gilbert," she offered a little shyly. "I'm afraid it's just yours truly. Rachel had business for the Ladies Aid and Marilla has taken the twins into town."

"Well, then. It's most fortunate that it's _your_ services I seek for our walk, Miss Shirley."

He smiled encouragingly, unable to prevent his eyes from raking over her, drinking in her beauty anew. _She wore a green dress - not the one she had worn to the wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond reception he liked especially. It was just the shade of green that brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry grey of her eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin._ He was unspeakably relieved to be back before her, having spent a harrowing night of little sleep, imagining all the possible swains at the Penhallow wedding, preparing to steal her away from him just at the point when he might finally declare himself to her.

"Shall we?" his deep-timbred voice hovered on a breath, hardly believing he was at the point he had striven so long for; a knight-errant at the end of a long quest, buoyed by the promise in her smile, which might once have sustained him for an entire term at Redmond.

They began down the well-worn route, as companionably as if this was yet another of their regular rambles, neither more nor less important than any other. _Gilbert, glancing at her sideways as they walked along a shadowy wood path, thought she had never looked so lovely._ A tendril of titian hair escaped and caught the breeze, and he almost had to physically wrestle himself away from the longing to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear with his long fingers. Instead he asked about the wedding, adoring the lilt of her voice even if he couldn't quite master a focus on her words, leaping ahead to consider his own once they arrived at their destination. _Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then, thought how much older he looked since his illness;_ his lean face relaxed into a manly maturity, _as if he had put boyhood behind him forever._ Her heart skittered like a pebble cast across the water whenever his hazel eyes lit on hers, before seeking respite from his incomparable attractiveness in the trees and the flowers and the soft footfalls of their matched, measured steps.

 _The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the old bench_ with a little flustered head toss, smoothing out her dress unnecessarily _. But it was beautiful there, too - as beautiful as it had been on the faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets; now golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters dotted it bluely._ Anne thought of the beloved garden as sacred link to those old days, when they as hopeful maidens had tripped and danced and dreamed in and around it; now the only maid was she, and she was weary of _talk of others that are wed._ ** Where once she might have frozen time, never wanting anything to alter, now she longed so for change, even as she feared what it would mean for her – to take Gilbert from her once more, back to Kingsport, belonging not to her but again to the world.

She sighed deeply, trying to instead appreciate the gift of the scene; here with Gilbert so healthy and handsome, hearing the _call of the brook_ as it _came up through the woods from the valley of birches with all its old allurement…_ Anne inhaled _the mellow air, full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences bleached silvery grey in the suns of many summers, and long hills scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the west wind old dreams returned._

Gilbert paced a few moments before taking a seat beside her with an almost apologetic smile. She was aware of his quiet breathing next to her; of his hands tapping out a distracted rhythm against his thighs; of his strong profile that she wondered, errantly, what it would be like to touch; if his skin was as honey-smooth as its appearance, and what the alluring dark stubble just emerging along that jaw would feel like beneath her fingers.

Hopeless conjecture, of course. _Can calm despair and wild unrest/Be tenants of a single breast?_ **

 _"I think," said Anne softly,_ for want of anything to fill the sudden silence, and to help beat back the confusing cacophony of her thoughts, _"that `the land where dreams come true' is in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley."_

Gilbert followed the direction of her gaze, before asking with a quiet fervour, _"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?"_

 _Something in his tone - something she had not heard since that miserable evening in the orchard at Patty's Place - made Anne's heart beat wildly. But she made answer lightly,_ unable to meet his newly searching eyes.

 _"Of course. Everybody has…"_ she answered, in a voice that was worryingly uneven. " _It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about…"_ She almost swallowed her tongue at her own helpless prattle, and the clear stupidity of introducing terms like _dead_ into the conversation when the man beside her had almost taken his last breath. What on _earth_ was she thinking?

" _What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns…"_ she changed tack with a sad desperation _. "I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful."_

 _Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked._ He looked at her flushed face and clasped hands and tormented lower lip and felt his heart might break open at her sweetness. If he had been nervous before, he drew new resolution from Anne's uncertainty. He reached out his own hand to still hers, covering both with his before lacing their fingers together.

 _"I have a dream," he said slowly,_ leaning in close enough to have his breath caress her cheek. _"I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends - and YOU!"_

There. _There it was._ Sink or swim, he at least knew he had done all that he could.

Her intake of breath was sharp, and she darted a glance to him in surprise, grey eyes flaring green in an instant as she slowly absorbed his meaning. _Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words_ and looked away again, dizzy with the truth of his loving look to her. A moment ago she was drowning in desolation… now… now… _happiness was breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her_ with its gathering strength, threatening to swamp her, and she squeezed his hand tightly, drawing on him to anchor her to the moment.

Gilbert had turned his body into hers, a broad shoulder nuzzling her slight one.

 _"I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?"_

 _Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer…_ but everything in him clamoured to ask his question anyway.

He dropped off the bench and onto one knee, never forfeiting his firm hold on the slim white hand in his.

"Anne… my Anne-girl…" he gulped, all his carefully rehearsed words drifting out of reach, as promises on the tide, leaving nothing but the choking certainty of his love for her. "I have loved you for as long as I can remember. With absolutely everything in me. There isn't a single moment of my life since that day in the schoolhouse that isn't tied to you. When I'm near you I tremble. When you're not near me, I ache. My heart beats faster just at the thought of you. I want nothing in this world but to love you and care for you and comfort you and support your dreams and to make you happy. I will strive every day to ensure your happiness. My friend… my love… will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

She looked down to him, disbelieving and amazed, and then that gorgeous grin, and a little noise that might have been yelp or sob as she leaned forward and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Gil!" she cried, the muffled words offered to his collarbone.

His own breath had deserted him, and it took all his strength not to give in to gravity and have them both topple over into the grass, audaciously appealing as the thought was. His large hands clutched her waist as the delighted, relieved laugh escaped him.

"I take it… this time… it's a _yes_?"

A girlish giggle bobbed up to join them, clasped together in the unsteady perch of his lap. Anne drew back her head, eyes shining and gaze wondering.

" _Yes,_ Gilbert! Oh, Gil, a thousand times, _yes!_ "

His heart not only did indeed beat faster at her proximity, let alone her declaration, but it hammered against his ribcage, demanding escape as if through a door.

Gilbert threw back his own head as if seeking confirmation from the heavens, before seizing her to him tightly, drawing them up to stand, his strong arms enveloping her and crushing her to him as he had done every night in his dreams.

" _Yes…"_ he murmured himself, into her fragrant hair, as if he had to repeat it to make it true.

"Oh, Gil, I love you so!" Anne admitted joyfully, this time to his shirtfront.

He raised her head to his enflamed gaze, cradling her cheek in his hand.

"Say that again!" the greedy, gravelly demand was offset by a dazzling smile.

The blush swept her face but those grey-green eyes held firm.

"I love you, Gilbert."

He blinked, dazedly, fearing he would awaken at this moment, as he had so many other times… awaken to that darkened bedroom and the sweat-stained sheets and the disorientating disappointment…

"Anne…" his own voice couldn't decide which octave to settle on. "You really mean that…?"

Her look to him nearly felled him to his knees. _"With absolutely everything in me,_ " she echoed.

He wasn't dreaming, then, for his average-at-best imagination could never have done justice to such a reply, with her beautiful blushing face and her parted shell-pink lips and her eyes to drown in.

His thumb brushed the cheek it had rested upon, before flitting lightly across the lips that had pressed to his own skin so fleetingly, yet so lovingly, two nights ago. Anne's breath hitched and he felt the catch in his own throat and in the very air around them. He had dreamt of _this_ moment, too, with the memories as fevered as anything the typhoid had helped produce… He inclined his head, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to hers.

It was a tentative kiss, carried within it past hurts and new hope; surprisingly chaste and circumspect and close-mouthed, given the passions of the people sharing it. He was a twenty-five year old man who had kissed very few women, let alone any in this manner, and though he was familiar with the mechanics of the motion – the basics of the biology - he was wholly unprepared for the wonder of it.

When he had imagined _this_ kiss, it had been colored first by schoolboy fantasy, mired in a maze of practicalities; what would her lips feel like? Would they be as plump and soft as they looked? Where might it happen? What should he do with his hands? Later, there would be the adolescent agony of his spurned advances, softening as he became her schoolmaster-comrade into a lovesick longing; meditating on her eyes, her smile, her laugh, her form, wondering with a _pang of self-distrust if he could ever make her care for him._ ***

And then… the closeness of the early Redmond years, where her nearness was tease and torment that became torture… until the sands shifted, and the more he tried to close the growing gap between them the more it became a yawning gulf… until he had overplayed his frustrated friendship; drowning himself in his attempt to quench the thirst of his suppressed desire, and his desperate need to make her his.

And now… she _was_ his. Finally, _his._ And his mind… his heart… and evidently, his _lips_ … couldn't quite believe it.

He withdrew, eyes fluttering open to stare into hers, and then in the same beat reached for her again, with the kiss this time not of the boy or the youth or the friend or the spurned scholar, but of the man who loved her… here, now, as the dream was made as real as the feel of her, soft and pliant and perfect. He pressed her to him so that he couldn't discern where she ended and he began; their very own moment of genesis, and he indeed felt as Adam, ensnared in something both ancient and entirely new.

The force of his faithful lips asked their own question, and with another little noise from her he would one day come to identify and catalogue with easy expertise, as with all the others, she tentatively opened her mouth to him, permitting the tantalising touch of tongue and the deepening of every drop of desire he now poured into her. His arms felt they could encircle her twice and still have room to roam up and down her spine, the sensitive fingers of his future-doctor hands splayed to trace every vertebrae through the clothing and corset that he felt he wanted to rip open with his teeth. The insistent throbbing within him started at his temple and travelled downwards… he knew with a wretched certainty that Fred had been as right as his name and he himself had been a fool… Anne could break away and ask anything of him in this moment and he would comply without demur… and that was _before_ her nimble fingers, clutching the sleeves of his shirt, travelled up waistcoat to collar and neck and then detoured around his ears before nesting in his crown of dark curls, as if content to find themselves a new home there.

There were countless minutes lost to the undertow, when all that he could manage was to remake himself again through this knowledge of her. Knowing, now, as he had so longed to, that her lips fitted themselves exactly to his, two puzzle pieces connecting; that he could bend slightly and sweep her up and against him and feel his body in sensational sensory conversation with hers; that it was quite possible to forgo breathing rather than interrupt their kiss, and he was perfectly happy with the trade. Finally, with an agonised groan he broke away from her, knowing the flush that colored his summer-browned face was as bright as anything Anne's own rosy complexion offered him, and knowing he had imprinted himself on her and she on him, so surely that the heat from her still warmed him, almost as much as her dazed, dazzled look.

They heaved great breaths, once able to, and shuddered as if having just swum the St Lawrence, and then both laughed in embarrassed acknowledgement of the passion that had pummelled them, perhaps not quite believing it of themselves. Anne was mortified to think she had ever worried over a peck to the cheek and felt she owed Marilla some sort of apology, and then remembered her words about whether Gilbert was his father's son and flushed further, face in sympathy with her hair. She felt his lips - _Gilbert's_ lips! - had set hers alight and then scorched the skin above and around them, making it tingle even as she begged to be burned again.

Gilbert bent to rest his forehead against hers in an effort to search for some sort of sanity, hands on her shoulders as if unsure if he was offering her support or seeking it for himself, and then directed them back to collapse on the bench, drawing her to him as they cooled and calmed. He knew he was made different by this momentous moment and thought he had realised, before, what it was to love her, but there was nothing equal to this... and when Anne's cheek found harbour against his heart and her arms moored themselves around him Gilbert thought he would never know a truer, more complete happiness in his life.

* * *

"Gil…" Anne ventured again, after a time. "Oh, Gil…"

"Sweetheart…" he sighed, similarly stunned, smiling as he caught her glance up to him, grey eyes growing soft at his endearment. "I've waited approximately a decade to be able to call you that," he chuckled to himself.

"Maybe you should have thought about that instead of _Carrots,_ Gilbert Blythe," she parried a little shakily, as much out of habit as anything, her smile hugging the reminder of the old tease.

He reached out his fingers, finally, to that tendril, leaning to kiss it with a courtly reverence. "I am somewhat overly attached to that nickname," he smiled softly as he tucked the strand behind her ear, leaning over to then kiss both.

Her breath came again; a quiet quiver echoed in a thrumming hummingbird-winged pulse he followed with his lips from ear lobe all the way down her alabaster throat, and her reaction made him tremble just as he himself had informed her. "I've waited a long while to do _that,_ too…" he murmured leadingly.

Anne clutched his shoulders for support, her eyes an emerald glaze at his amorous ministrations, trapped in a whirlpool of new sensations.

"Oh if only…" she gave a little, stuttering sigh.

" _If only,_ Anne-girl?" he rumbled, journeying back up to meet her eyes with a quirk of his dark brow.

"If only you had kissed me like _that_ two years ago, Gil… maybe I might have said yes _then!"_

His chuckle was as warm as the merry spark in his eyes.

"Remind me, darling, to tell you of a conversation I had with Fred one of these days."

" _Fred?"_ she laughed in turn, but didn't linger on the question, being otherwise diverted. "I get to have _darling_ as well?"

"Oh future wife, I'm just getting started."

"I think I like that best of all," her eyes shone.

"So do I." He reached for her hand again to kiss it. He traced a finger along nails and up to delicate knuckles, the secret smile forming on his face.

"Your hand is looking a little lonely there, Anne-girl. It might need some adornment, now."

Anne looked down at her small hand in his.

"Gil… we have our promise. I don't need a – "

He silenced her protest with a firm look and a gentle kiss. "Yes, you do. I want the whole world to know I'm yours, and you're mine."

She watched him dive into his pocket, extracting the little box that had kept company with him for several days. He placed it carefully in her hand, touched by the awed look she gave him.

" _Gil…"_

"This is but a beginning, Anne. If you feel it's not quite right, we can go up to Charlottetown together and – "

This time it was he who was silenced, by her gasp of surprise as she opened the box to see the circlet of pearls, preening proudly in the sunlight.

"Oh, Gilbert! It's… I can't… I can't believe you could have found anything so perfect!"

"You like it?"

"How could you have known to… to… choose pearls…?" she stumbled, throat thick. "The two most important men in my life have given me pearls … I have Matthew's… and now yours."

He grinned in delight, taking the ring from its bed to slide the old gold over her finger, fitting easily and so rightly he himself was amazed.

"It was my grandmother's… Ma's mother…" he explained. "Ma wanted especially for you to have it, Anne, if you wanted it."

Anne looked down at the ring, foreign and yet so familiar already on her hand, and back to Gilbert.

"Your _mother_ wanted me to have this?"

"Yes."

"A family heirloom?"

"You are part of our family now, Anne, in every way."

"I'm so honoured to wear it, Gil. I love it. And I love _you_." She kissed him through a veil of tears.

"As I love _you,_ my gorgeous girl. Though my ma did warn me about pearls being for tears…" he chuckled, lips grazing her wet cheeks.

"Well, then," she smiled wryly, "I can cry happy tears too, you know," and proceeded to give an excellent demonstration thereof.

* * *

"Do I… have a turn as well?" she asked later, a little coyly, head having long since drifted to his shoulder.

"A turn?"

"Something _I've_ wished to do for a long time?"

"Apart from the kissing and the caressing and the general lovemaking of the last hour?" he grinned unashamedly, outrageously pleased with their time thus spent.

"Gilbert Blythe! Do I have to take you in hand already?"

Gilbert's expression, an approximation of sheepish undercut by the betraying flash of a wolfish smile, rather indicated he wouldn't mind _that_ scenario, either. But he duly promised he would make every endeavour to behave himself.

"I haven't had much time to think about this…" her embarrassed gaze swept downwards. "But you have to close your eyes. And stay perfectly still. _And_ silent."

"I will do my best, my lovely."

Anne turned to properly face him, noting how those long, thick lashes cast intriguing tiny shadows across his tanned skin in the late afternoon sun, and how his eminently kissable lips were apple-red from their very recent exertions. She took a steadying breath. "After you… had been so sick, Gil… you had accumulated a few new frown lines and furrows…"

He opened one eye in protest, furrowing brow anew for good measure, and closed it again at her look of exasperation.

"I wanted so many times to smooth them for you, Gil… to ease the pain and hurt they represented… but it wasn't my place. I didn't have the right. I wondered, too, whether some of _my_ past actions were responsible for a few of them…"

"Anne…"

"Shush…" she reminded. "Now, even though they have faded and mostly disappeared as your health has returned, I… I remember them. I have the memory of them, and how they came to you. Here…" she lightly kissed the cheek she had kissed at the door to Green Gables, once marred by a track tracing the cheekbone, "and it's twin was _here,"_ she placed her lips, ever gently, to the other side of his face. "There was the line to your brow _here,"_ she caressed the now-smooth forehead that had leaned against hers, "and _here…"_ her lips found the little line of query still above the bridge to his nose. Anne carefully kissed the crease that had lived along one side of his nose and the tiny fissures, once deepened furrows, fluttering outwards of either eye. And when she finished she kissed both closed eyes, declaring her night-vigil fear of them never looking upon her again, and finally, fingers delighting to linger on the stubble of his jaw, a fairy brush of her lips against his own, announcing the dread she had felt to never have heard them again speak her name.

Gilbert had been still as of his promise, but when he finally opened his eyes to her again, betrayingly bright, he was as speechless as she had earlier been, only capable of clasping her to him with a love for her so fierce that he feared it might break him.

"I called to you, Anne…" he rasped, face buried in her hair. "I called to you in my fever…"

"I know, my beloved…" she whispered, tears dampening his collar. "I heard you."

* * *

 _They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden must have been, crept over it. There was so much to_ still _talk over and recall - things said and done and heard and thought and felt and misunderstood._ It was a necessary coming of the tide, washing away all the old hurts and recent misgivings.

 _"I thought you loved Christine Stuart," Anne told him,_ secure now in the circle of his arms and in the circlet now adorning her finger, _as reproachfully as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she_ had _loved Roy Gardner._

 _Gilbert laughed boyishly,_ thrilling to the feel of her back leaning against his chest, as they snuggled together on the bench that had become love seat, in every respect.

"Everyone certainly kept reminding me of that," he smirked, unseen.

"I expected her to turn up on your doorstep and turn me out every single day, Gilbert!" Anne protested, aggrieved, still, over the long-held worry over such a possibility. "And no wonder. She's very accomplished and very beautiful."

Gilbert peered around to view her suddenly solemn face, and his arms tightened around her involuntarily.

"Anne, how could you believe I would have _ever_ preferred her over you?"

"Oh…" she sighed deeply, giving a chastened smile. "Probably the violet eyes and the rose-leaf complexion and the glossy dark hair and the – "

" _Stop!"_ he laughed quietly, turning her properly to him so that she was almost sitting in his lap, yet again. "Let me tell you something, Anne Shirley, soon to be – one day to be – Anne _Blythe_ …" the sought-after satisfaction of this realisation made him pause, and he looked off into the dreamy distance for a moment before coming back to her, his hazel eyes sparking with a new, fervent fire that stirred something equally new deep in her belly.

 _"Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town,"_ he explained patiently. _"I knew it and she knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did."_

Gilbert paused to kiss Anne's own now-perturbed brow, biting back a smile of new smugness.

" _And then,_ I admit, _I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I've ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. There was nobody else - there never could be anybody else for me but you…"_ His arms clasped her ever tighter. _"I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in school."_

Anne reached a hand to his forehead, and then to crown, tracing the now-invisible bump that had once showed there, and then again into his curls, caressing them in a way that made his eyes flare.

 _"I don't see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little fool," said Anne,_ shamefacedly _._

 _"Well, I tried to stop," said Gilbert frankly,_ blowing out a steadying breath, _"not because I thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance for me after Gardner came on the scene._ He was all you ever dreamt of – your brooding hero come to life. _But I couldn't - and I can't_ fully _tell you, either - what it's meant to me these two years to believe you were going to marry him,_ Anne-girl, _and be told every week by some busybody that your engagement was on the point of being announced…"_

"As _I_ believed with _yours,_ Gil!" Anne defended spiritedly, withdrawing her hand to pass it impatiently through her own. "And I have the broken chain to prove it!"

" _Pardon,_ Anne?" he gave bemused smile, nonplussed at her outburst.

Anne started, caught on her half-truth.

"Well… your pink enamel locket, Gil…"

"Yes, I _am_ familiar with it…" he smiled widely, "and what of this heart locket that nestled so alluringly against your luminescent skin at White Sands?"

Anne blushed at both the compliment and the coming admission, dropping her gaze.

"I wore it to the Convocation Ball, Gil. It felt as much a part of me… of _us_ … as your lilies had done. But I walked there with Phil, and the irrepressible Miss Gordon as was couldn't stop _chattering_ , on that occasion, about how she had _heard today that Gilbert Blythe's engagement to Christine Stuart was to be announced as soon as Convocation was over,_ quote unquote, and had I heard _anything of it,_ and that she thought it was true! **** And so… and so… I broke the chain, Gil, and stuffed the pendant in my pocket. I'm very sorry. It was deliberate, and not an accident."

Several moments passed until Anne risked a look back to Gilbert, whom she was astonished to see was fighting a smile, eyes glowing.

"You loved me, then, even if you didn't know it!" he offered, expression exultant.

"I was furious!" she spluttered.

"You were _jealous,_ " he crowed.

"Well… you gave me every reason to be, Gilbert Blythe, with Phil and the rest of Redmond in my ear about your so-called intentions!"

Gilbert attempted, mostly unsuccessfully, to muzzle his smile, and the pride that burst forth in him.

"I'm sorry for your annoyance with me there, Anne-girl," he soothed. "But you must forgive me in taking a _little_ pleasure in that…" the dimple at his cheek toyed with announcing itself as he traced his fingers across her throat and down further to where the locket had rested that night, feeling now instead her deep breaths, less indignant by the moment. "And don't be so hard on our friend Phil. I might have never thought you could love me until that day you cut my hair… and fell across into my lap as you do now… and looked at me _then_ as you are doing now…"

He was finding his breaths were matching Anne's, and swallowed hard. " _That_ _blessed day…_ actually the night before... I opened _a letter from_ the selfsame _Phil Gordon - Phil Blake, rather - in which she told me there was really nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to `try again.'_ I knew by then you weren't engaged, but still, it was hugely encouraging… _the doctor_ and my parents were _amazed at my rapid recovery after that."_

"Phil _wrote_ to you?"

"Indeed."

"My goodness. I hardly know what to say. I love her dearly, but I was a little angry with her for a while. I'm afraid that my temper is still a part of me, Gil. Will you be able to stand it?"

"Oh, I think I'll learn to ride it out…" he quirked a knowing smile, fingers brushing her cheek again, with unbearable tenderness. "And what of _my_ faults, Anne-girl? I'm sure I must have a _few…_ " he grinned again to her gorgeous nose wrinkling at his tease. "Life is never going to be dull for us, my darling. I love _all_ the parts to you, Anne, even the a-little-less-than-perfect ones. Because behind them is spirit and passion and challenge and fire and fearlessness. And _that's_ why there was never anyone for me but you."

 _Anne laughed_ quietly _\- then shivered._

"And you for me, Gil, even if I was so slow to recognise it. But you're wrong about the fearlessness. I was never so afraid in my life as the moment I found out how sick you were. And I… _I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I knew - I KNEW then - and I thought it was too late."_

She blinked back tears, the memory, even now, still too raw. "Too late to tell you how I felt, and how sorry I was, and how you might have left this earth never knowing how much I really cared. What would I have done without you? Your strength and your drive, your decency and your goodness, your wonderful mind and your lovely humour and your overdeveloped sense of fairness…" she attempted a watery smile, desperate to lighten the gravity of her words, and his own contemplative look towards her.

"You forgot my dashing good looks, there."

"Surely they are taken as a given."

He laughed loudly at this, clasping him to her, his joy brimming over in an enthusiastic caress of throat with lips, before remembering himself.

 _"But it wasn't_ too late _, sweetheart,"_ he determined, her torrent of admiring words having made him flush. His hazel eyes dazzled as he continued with his trademark optimism, and his characteristically firm, quiet resolution. _"Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, doesn't it?_ In the end none of that matters, love, now that we have arrived here, in _this_ moment. _Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us."_

His kiss that became many kisses was rather the gift in itself, and Anne would later have to muse on the marvel of this faithful comrade turned such passionate paramour.

 _"It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly,_ having relinquished his lips with some effort. _"I've always loved this old garden of Hester Gray's, and now it will be dearer than ever."_

 _"But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," said Gilbert sadly, his face clouding. "_ I'd marry you tomorrow if I could. But..." he sighed, " _It will be three years before I'll finish my medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls."_

 _Anne laughed,_ much more gaily than before _._

 _"I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU."_ She reached to kiss his own hand, sealing her promise. _"You see, I'm quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more `scope for imagination' without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for each other - and dreaming. Oh,_ my beloved Gil, _dreams will be very sweet now."_

Gilbert's expression lightened again, and he _drew her close to him and kissed her._

"I don't think any dream could be better than the reality of this day, my love," he determined raggedly, his kiss as passionate as a vow. "Or the reality of all our days to come."

"I guess…" Anne murmured against his loving lips, "that Marilla will be the one to think she's dreaming, seeing us come together after all this time."

Gilbert reluctantly withdrew, the gleam in his hazel eyes competing with the brilliance of his Blythe grin.

"Let's see about that, sweetheart, shall we?"

With knowing look he took her hand in his, pulling her up to stand beside him as he knew she would do, now, for the rest of their days. His long-held dream of hearth-fire and _her…_ he could hardly believe his own happiness was hers now as well, to safeguard and to share, or that they would finally be dreaming of their life together, and not he on his own; solitary pipe dreams, fruitless and futile.

Gilbert paused to sweep a grateful glance back to the garden that had helped furnish all his future hopes. _Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew._

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*It was always my desire to work in with canon again, and I am pleased to know I have every sentence of the last chapter, _Love Takes Up the Glass of Time,_ both here and a little at the end of this story's previous chapter, and have kept to the sequence of events as written by Lucy Maud. Whether I have been able to blend canon and my own work successfully, in structure and tone, remains to be seen! However, I really enjoyed writing this one!

Therefore, please note that everything italicised is taken from _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 41) unless otherwise specified.

**Alfred, Lord Tennyson, from _In Memoriam A.H.H.,_ from which I've also, you may recall, taken my title

*** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 2) slightly reversed!

**** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 37)

* * *

 **And some overdue correspondence...**

This has turned into a _kissing book,_ **Anne O' the Island,** and no mistake! I have opened the floodgates.

I hope this has been worth the long wait, J **xuan, wow, KBsMomma, snowgirldeb, stillpink, engineerwenlock, and msfroglette**

… and to **MaryNotContrary, Jxuan, DrinkThemIn, Lavinia Maxwell, AnneNGil, slovakAnne, Corkrose, OriginalMcFishie, Kalewis82 and Excel,** I hope the kissing lives up to the hype!

And an actual proposal. **Lizzy Eastwood;** you did so wonderfully well in calling that in _Courage to Try Again._ I HAD to have Gilbert ask, too, and I HAD to have Anne answer. I am all for non-verbal communication but let's just say the words here!

Thank you, **Catiegirl and Alinyaalethia,** and of course **Lizzy,** for your encouragement in writing alongside and incorporating canon

Sorry, **Excel Aunt.** I know how Alice Penhallow grieves you. We had to have her. And now she can disappear, never to be heard from again.

 **mavors and elizasky,** I hope there are enough Blythe curls for you, here (and more John Blythe soon!) and for **GreenGabledGirl,** a little Tennyson :)

 **oz diva and marillasgirl,** there will be more marvellous Marilla coming soon. And for **NotMrsRachelLynde and Rachelynde,** certainly more Rachel and the twins!

 **alinyaalethia and TLWtlw…** you are making me want to write about young John Blythe! Just don't tell oz diva.

 **Luna White,** if you are still reading, you can read all the Anne of Green Gables series (and thousands more works in the public domain) for free online at Project Gutenberg. Just do a search for the site and then search the work - books, poetry, you name it! - that you are wanting. I also hope you are enjoying the Sullivan series screening in Germany!

Speaking of the Sullivan series, **TooTiredToReadEnough** and the **Guest posting on Ch 9 on Dec 21st** \- thank you for the shared Jonathan Crombie love x

To everyone else reading, and to others who I may have missed, thank you x


	12. Chapter 12 Rejoicing

**Author's Note:**

Oh, goodness! What to say? It's been four months since I last updated this story or Heart's Desire, and six months since I last posted on Betwixt. I have felt the frustration of that delay every day, for it has not been intentional, and certainly not desirable. I think I am finally at peace with acknowledging that Real Life, for my family, is such that it will always infringe upon my available opportunities to write and review, now more so than even when I started here two years ago. I know I am hardly alone in that! It is rather a bitter pill, all the same, for this is like breathing to me now, but unfortunately it is what it is.

In the meantime, I am bolstered by my brilliant friendships here with writers and readers alike, inspired by the other stories on the site and gobsmacked by the lovely people - you all - who have continued to like, follow, read and review even when it definitely looked like, not only were the lights turned off and nobody home, but that I might have moved house completely. Thank you all, magnificent people!

Particular thanks go to some forum buddies, who were so kind and helpful when the file containing this two thirds finished chapter corrupted a week ago (luckily I got it back!), and to elizasky, mavors4986, Excel Aunt and oz diva for their always entertaining conversations and for always checking in with me. Likewise to new friend DearElla and the lovely NotMrsRachelLynde. And finally to the Guest who posted a review on all my ongoing stories a week or so ago - thank you! That meant the world!

Well, onwards and upwards! We are getting there with this one!

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

 _ **Rejoicing**_

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

"Oh, Gil, this is terribly wicked of us!" Anne remarked in hushed tones, though her pitch was high and girlish and flustered, and there was a green to her eyes that the smoky late twilight made dazzling.

"I have it on good authority that young women of these parts _like_ the _wild, dashing, wicked_ * type, Miss Shirley," Gilbert grinned, still marvelling at the small ringed white hand clasped in his, utterly unable to resist the temptation to kiss it. "I am only trying to fulfil my obligations."

"Wherever did you hear that, Gilbert?" Anne viewed him with smile already turning saucy, before huffing in sudden comprehension. "Oh, for goodness' sake! _Fred!_ Is _nothing_ sacred? Diana and I spoke of that when we were girls. I'm never telling her anything ever again!"

"Not even _this?"_ he gave leading reply, beloved baritone still husky with emotion, tugging gently at her arm to draw her to him, gathering her to his side and kissing her soundly.

" _Maybe_ this…" Anne breathed unevenly, her free hand resting on his chest, feeling the firmness of the taut torso beneath her fingers and responding with an answering flutter in her belly.

"Well then, my love," he urged throatily, "your audience awaits."

Anne gave a little admonishing shake of the head, and then withdrew from his hold, slowly traversing the steps, making her tread as wooden as the floorboards. She turned back but Gilbert had already melted into the shadows, awaiting his cue.

Anne opened the green door with a predetermined trepidation, unsurprised to see the household hunkered around the table for supper. Her betraying left hand clutched the small posy of wildflowers she and Gilbert had gathered on their return, and with her right she brushed at her stray, escaped curls with a forlorn air.

"Hello, everyone," she greeted mournfully.

Marilla had been in the process of serving some beans to Dora, and both looked up, paused comically mid-action. Davy actually surveyed her open-mouthed, giving her an excellent view of the boiled potatoes he had just shovelled inside. Rachel gaped wider than Davy, and then seized her napkin, grasping it with both agitated hands.

"Anne?" Marilla straightened, low voice suddenly hoarse at her unexpectedly lone reappearance.

"I'm very sorry I'm late to supper," Anne continued slowly, biting her lip. "I guess I lost track of time."

"Were you not… with Gilbert?" Marilla's tone wavered, and her eyes surveyed Anne in confusion.

"Oh, yes," Anne nodded, "we took a walk to Hester Gray's. It was most pleasant."

Anne turned and strode to the pump, having to purse her lips so as not to smirk at the clearly incredulous look she caught passing between Rachel and Marilla.

"But I thought –" Davy protested loudly, despite his mouthful, and was shushed resoundingly by the two women.

Anne fiddled with a small vase, arranging the flowers with preoccupied air and placing them on the windowsill, and then turned to see the beloved residents of this old homestead – her family – busily serving and eating, with an impressive if exaggerated singlemindedness that would have put professional thespians to shame. They made determined efforts not to look her way, even to the point when Anne made no attempt to hide her ring. _Or_ her grin.

"Do you think there's room for one more?" Anne now asked breezily, bustling back to the door and pulling it open. "My fiancé is fairly famished."

Gilbert came through the door with twinkling eyes and sensational smile, surveying all assembled as they tried to comprehend this stupefying spectacle.

"Good evening ladies, Dora, Davy…" he greeted gamely, giving a polite bow for good measure. "Excuse me for intruding, but I believe Miss Shirley forgot _this."_

He clasped her ringed hand and drew her to him, in an action audaciously off script, and kissed her all-too-willing mouth in triumph, to the sounds of polite pandemonium behind them.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert paused an hour later at his own door, heart thudding so forcefully against his ribcage it was in danger of bursting through it. He hardly knew how he had arrived home except the phrase _walking on air_ might indeed have become a physical possibility, though the temptation to now run off his boyish excitement by rounding the barn at speed, accompanying himself with some Davy-inspired war whoops, was rather overwhelming.

Instead he caught his breath, surveying the circle of wavering light behind the closed kitchen curtains. His parents waited for him, and his news, whatever it might be, and would offer him their own resolute support regardless of the outcome. For the first time his mind flashed forward to his own home and his own table, and his own child hesitating on the threshold, about to confide some lifechanging circumstance. How would he bear the weight of it? The responsibility of all that was to come washed over him; he held the happiness of so many, now, in his broad, brown palm.

But then he remembered that white hand in his, and his concerns fell away, for there was nothing but _Anne… Anne… Anne…_ her name on his lips and, God help him, her lips beneath his. His cheeks enflamed with the delicious, metamorphosing memory of their afternoon, and he knew he was forever made different by her declaration of love for him, and the freedom he finally felt to say it in return. And then there had been her eyes and smile as they were engulfed in a jubilant wave of congratulation from the residents of Green Gables… Gilbert had been completely charmed by their reactions, from Dora's surprising kiss to Davy's ear-splitting grin and Rachel's rib-crushing embrace. And finally, to Marilla's joyous look to him, placing her own palms tenderly either side of his face, staring up at him with the smiling, shining, softened visage of one whose years of quiet hope and expectation had been suddenly rewarded.

And now… Gilbert would have continued his own act _a la_ Anne, shuffling inside with the appearance of one bereft, bowed down by disappointment, but his grin betrayed him as he instead bounded through, and two expectant faces broke on his single, exultant exclamation… _YES!_

 _XXXXX_

John Blythe had more than due cause to fetch his tobacco later that evening, though Ella had chased him out onto the verandah, and then, her own excitement still too much, had taken herself over to share the news with the Fletchers, leaving father and son momentarily to their own devices.

Gilbert cradled his cup of tea in his hand, laughing again to himself as her parting kiss still warmed his cheek.

"Ma _does_ realise it'll be three years yet, doesn't she?"

That soft, knowing chuckle drifted toward him alongside the pungent smoke from his father's pipe.

"Don't believe that for a second. It will be nothing but flowers and dress patterns and table arrangements around here by the middle of next week."

"Oh, no! Sorry about that, Dad."

"Yes, I'm sure you _are_ , soon to be safe and away back in Kingsport," that wry Blythe grin flicked back towards his son, but John's expression soon grew thoughtful. "And Anne will still be off to Summerside?"

Now it was Gilbert's turn to pause. "We haven't had a chance to talk about it much, yet. But they do expect her, and naturally contracts have been signed. If circumstances had been different Anne might have looked for a position in Kingsport, of course… well, it's an excellent opportunity for her, and I'd hate to stand in the way of it."

John nodded, taking a few contemplative puffs. "And you'd both survive a three _year_ engagement?"

Gilbert felt his sip of tea might exit through his nose if his father's querying eyebrow was raised any higher.

"Well, Fred and Diana managed to survive it," he defended.

" _Apparently,"_ John smirked.

Gilbert hardly dared press his father further, having quickly come to comprehend Fred's own asides on matters of men and women quite well enough now after this afternoon. The thought made him smile slyly, and his look was not lost on his companion.

"I take it Anne is… as passionate in romantic matters as she is in everything else?" John's tone fell well short of the bland innocence it strove for, and the answering blush from his son, already well into manhood, might have made him chortle if he wasn't so thrilled to see it.

Gilbert cleared his throat most thoroughly.

"Ah, yes, Dad. She is, rather." His look in that moment was sheepish rather than smug, still marvelling as he was over the day's events. "Surely that is a _good_ thing?"

"Oh yes, son. Absolutely, yes! It is a wonderful thing in a marriage – just not so helpful during an _engagement._ "

Gilbert felt a groan escape him, overtaken by his father's easy laughter.

"Don't worry there, Gil. Enjoy this time. It's been a long road for you and Anne, and there's longer still. Take a few detours now and again… just, well, just don't get _lost._ "

Gilbert spluttered a laugh. "So you're _still_ saying _slow, steady, sure_ to me?"

"More than ever!"

John stood slowly, offering Gilbert a bolstering back slap that morphed into a hug, and when they separated it was with the surprising spark of tears in both sets of eyes.

"I'm proud of you, son."

"Because she finally said _yes_?" Gilbert could joke about it now.

John's look was gentle.

"Because you didn't give up on her, _or_ yourself. You kept faith, and you learnt from the past, and you tried again."

Gilbert swallowed hard, his look admiring for this gentle-strong man and mentor, whom he had the privilege and good fortune to call _Dad_.

"Like _you_ did."

His father's fulsome smile was the perfect cap to an extraordinary day.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne sat up in bed, attempting to compose a letter to Phil, but the sight of her pearl circlet stopped her breath; the talisman of her promise and of Gilbert's pledge. Would she ever be able to measure up to his standard of womanhood? Could she make this transition, from friend to fiancée, and onwards to lover and wife? If she let him down, after years of loving and longing, she wouldn't be able to bear it.

A soft knock at her door heralded not Dora, as that time before, but Marilla, long grey hair braided and long nightgown billowing on a cloud of cotton as she padded into the room.

"Should I be surprised out of all the household it is _you_ still not asleep?"

Anne gave a tired little laugh, abandoning paper and her perfect pen to shimmy aside, making room on the bed.

"I have honestly been trying, Marilla! I even thought I'd send myself to sleep by attempting a missive to Phil Blake, but my brain just won't allow it!"

"Well, that fine brain of yours has had rather a lot to get used to, today."

Marilla reached a worn brown hand out to hers, grasping the lily white one and placing it atop her own, all the better to admire its new adornment.

"It is a lovely ring, Anne. Gilbert knows your heart well."

Anne smile was mirrored in her shining eyes. "As I hope to know his."

Grey eyes regarded blue with an unwavering gaze.

"You told me to trust in his heart, didn't you? Before Alice's wedding. You knew _then_."

Marilla Cuthbert gave an intriguingly secretive, satisfied smile. "I had hopes."

"Gil said he came to you, for your blessing. And that you were marvellous. Oh, Marilla, thank you!" Anne grasped those work-worn hands tightly. "I can't think to deserve such happiness!"

"Blessed child…" a palm came out to cup her cheek, as it had Gilbert's earlier that evening. "You've been my happiness, and Matthew's, since you first came here. Why should you not have some of your own now?"

Those grey eyes flooded over, and Anne sniffed resoundingly.

"Do you think Matthew would have approved? I saw Gil's ring and my first thought was of Matthew's pearls. I like to think maybe it was a sign."

"Then let it be so," Marilla assented generously. "Matthew only ever wanted your happiness – whatever that came to look like. Whether it looked like pearls or _puffed sleeves_."

Marilla's tone was wry, and Anne laugh-sobbed in reply, dashing her hand across her tears.

"Things have changed so much since the start of the summer. The world seems so new and unrecognisable to be now."

Marilla nodded slowly. "It is a new beginning, but the world is still the same, Anne. You might just see it a little differently. You will have new decisions to make, and encounter new concerns. But you and Gilbert will face them together. And you may also see Gilbert differently… it would be natural to do so… but he is still the same Gilbert underneath."

Anne reddened at this most inappropriately, thinking how all this time Gilbert had to have been in disguise, for how could his familiar, lean face have suddenly become ever more handsome? His brown curls more tantalising? His hazel gaze more smouldering? His dimple more fetching? His warm, throaty laugh more mesmeric? Only of late had she properly mused upon the impressive sight of his shoulders straining against his shirt or jacket, and yet surely those same shoulders existed before? It was bewitching but bewildering.

And Anne had to caution herself not to linger upon his full, rather luscious lips, curved into his signature teasing smile, or pressed against her temple or behind her ear or to her throat or…

Anne cleared said throat most thoroughly.

And then, with a newfound knowledge as marvellous as a miracle, she ventured another look to her beloved guardian.

"Actually, Marilla, you are right. And you were right about something else, too."

"Oh?"

"I do believe that Gilbert must be very _much_ like his father on matters… er… of an amorous nature."

It took Marilla Cuthbert a beat to process this, and Anne in the silence of that moment thought she had breached some invisible divide. But then that raspy, rare-heard laugh rumbled up from Marilla's breast, floating by Anne's flaming cheeks and filling every corner of the little east gable room.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert called for Anne as early as was decent the next morning, as the sun was already promisingly bright in a cloudless, cerulean summer sky.

There was exactly a week remaining to them here, together in Avonlea, an engaged couple revelling in their new betrothal, and Gilbert refused to allow the tide of Time to erode their enjoyment of it. He would cherish every moment with Anne and not lament the remaining lack of them, for every day already felt as if the hand of Providence had wound back the clock to give him another chance; some death-bed bargain struck on his behalf and for which he would be forever grateful.

Anne seemed to likewise share the same covenant; she greeted him at the door, with wondering smile and greening eyes, and then tentatively took his hand with a suddenly shy downward sweep of lashes, which nearly undid him then and there.

"Hello now, Gilbert!" Rachel gave indulgent smile and self-important bustle about the table. "We've just cleared breakfast but will you take some tea with us?"

Gilbert was incredibly aware of Anne's hand holding tightly to his, and wondered if it squeezed infinitesimally in support of this idea or no.

"You are most welcome, Gilbert," Marilla urged from his other side, flicking an all-seeing glance to Anne, "but we understand if you both have some calls to make today."

Gilbert felt he could have kissed Marilla in that moment, grateful for the ready means of escape, even as Dora and Davy circled them with open curiosity, and Davy had already mused last night upon how having a big brother about might improve his access to and range of social activities exponentially.

"As a matter of fact, we plan to call on my parents," Gilbert gave a soft, encouraging look to Anne. "They are absolutely thrilled, and would like to invite all at Green Gables to afternoon tea tomorrow, where Uncle and Aunt Fletcher will join us."

"Thank you, Gilbert," Marilla gave warm smile. "Please tell your parents we accept with pleasure."

"We plan to visit with Diana and Fred as well," Anne finally found her voice, "and then I guess we have an awful lot of letters to write!"

This was met with fond approval, and then Rachel was full of possible items she might gift them for an engagement present, which moved to embarrassingly candid conjecture regarding the state of Anne's hope chest, which precipitated Anne quickly encouraging their exit before further mortification ensued. She was evidently not so delighted by Gilbert's amused chuckle as they tumbled in their haste down the verandah steps and began to walk at speed towards the lane.

"Well may you laugh now, Gilbert Blythe," Anne warned, cheeks reddening, "but Rachel will probably furnish me with a full inventory of essential items by the end of the day!"

"I had no idea Mrs Lynde would be so interested in how many changes of linen we should have for our bed," Gilbert offered merrily. "And consult with Diana if you must, but I am perfectly at peace regarding whatever number of doilies are decided upon."

Anne huffed and rolled her eyes at this, gathering steam and pace as they reached the cover of the canopy.

"Anne-girl…" Gilbert tugged at her hand gently, turning her around to face him. "I don't care for any details of our future home except one. The _lady_ residing withinit."

His hazel gaze was so loving and his tone so sensuous it stopped her in her tracks, mouth open on a flustered breath and free hand fluttering to the lacy collar of her lovely cream blouse, offsetting her ring to perfection. Anne had accessorised pearl earrings, too, and had teased soft ringlets either side of her careful coif, clearly not appreciating just how maddening would be the temptation to touch them.

"Forgive me, Miss Shirley, but I am dreadfully remiss in affording you a proper greeting. Good morning, my beautiful future-wife."

This thankfully elicited a smile. "Good morning, beloved future-husband."

He felt his own smile splitting his cheeks, reaching a slightly shaking hand to tilt her chin, still not quite believing this was his world, now; a place where Anne was his, to kiss and caress and cherish. He felt her lips tremble beneath his, and wondered if she was as nervous as he; yesterday had been a feverish onslaught of surprise and sensation, but would their love translate so easily in the clear light of a new day?

He needn't have worried; within moments he had grasped her shoulders as Anne pressed herself to him, and his blood whipped and stirred, shooting through veins and arteries and spreading a delicious enveloping heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

They withdrew with knowing smiles, and Anne moved into his embrace, resting her head against his thundering, happy heart and sighing contentedly.

"Better, Miss Shirley?"

"Better," she assented with a smile up at him.

"Were you afraid it wouldn't be?"

"Wouldn't be…?"

"The same, as yesterday," he admitted uneasily. "That we might not have been able to quite recapture the same… feelings."

"Oh, Gilbert! Are you saying you were worried that _my_ feelings would change?"

Gilbert was unaware of how his bright hazel eyes darkened at his admission. "Not exactly… I was just a little uncertain when you wouldn't look at me directly just now, back at the house. I mean, it was incredibly endearing… just not _typical._ "

Anne gave a funny little smile at that, unexpectedly coy. She stepped away from him and began slow steps towards their destination, though her hand stayed firmly attached to his, and with the other she trailed lily white fingers with a slow sensuousness along leaves and blooms and tall grasses along their path.

"It's not a matter of _changed_ feelings, Gil…" she finally murmured. "More like, _too many_ feelings."

"Oh?" he prompted gently, fearing he would disrupt her train of thought.

"I just…" she sighed. "Oh, this is all very unexpected! Maybe if I had a chance to talk to Diana about it, I'd – "

"Diana?" he stopped her again, brows drawing together. "Anne, love, I'm _here._ Please, talk to _me._ "

"I can't very well talk _to_ you, Gil, when it's _about_ you!" she flared suddenly, waving her free hand in the air in angry emphasis.

His brows shot up defensively. "Have I done something wrong, Anne?" he quailed.

"Of course not, you silly, wonderful man! If you _must_ know, well, I had a dream about you last night!"

He nearly choked on his relieved laughter. "Oh! _That's_ all! Anne, darling, you had me worried there!"

"Are you _listening,_ Gilbert? I had a _dream_ about you!"

"Well, love, I dream about you all the time."

This evidently wasn't the response she had been searching for.

"Oh, well, yes, thank you for reminding me of my _years_ of foolishness with regards to you! I have much to catch up on, obviously!"

"Anne-girl, you're not making _any_ sense."

She wrenched her hand from his. "Sometimes you can be infuriatingly calm, Gilbert! I rather wish in this instance you were your dream incarnation, quite honestly!"

"And what did my _dream_ incarnation do that was so special?" he fought hard to keep the quirk from his lips.

Anne shot him a look full of fire, which only offset the crimson blaze of her cheeks. Before he could properly react she began stomping quickly down the lane.

" _No matter,"_ she threw out grimly.

Gilbert paused in sudden understanding, eyes widening. _Some fiancé I'm turning out to be_ , he berated himself.

"Anne, darling, I'm sorry! Can we just stop for a minute?"

Anne only tossed her head more haughtily and increased her pace.

Gilbert caught her with a few long, easy strides, wrapping her in his strong arms from behind, hoping his embrace would forever be a shield and a comfort. He rested his chin atop her slight shoulder.

"Did you have… er… a _sensual_ dream about us, Carrots?" he asked softly.

Anne stood stiffly in his arms, making no response, though perhaps he had found his answer in the rapid pulse of her carotid artery against his cheek.

"It's a very natural thing, Anne. And nothing to be ashamed of."

Her own little pointed chin came up at that. "I'm not ashamed."

"Good." His arms tightened around her. _That's my girl._

"Have _you?_ " Anne squeaked. "Had… _dreams?"_

Gilbert smiled unseen, wanting to laugh his response, along the lines of _only every day – or evening – of the last six or so years –_ but knew he owed her so much more than a glib remark.

"I have," he admitted slowly. "More times than is at all gentlemanly to own to."

Anne seemed to consider this for several moments.

"Well, that's why, Gilbert."

" _Why,_ love?"

"Why I couldn't really look at you just now. At least not in front of the others. I thought it would be written all over my face."

He turned her round to his thoughtful gaze, her slender body unresisting, though her serious grey eyes refused to meet his.

"Come, sweetheart," Gilbert gestured towards one of their favourite resting places in the past; a fallen log in a small little alcove alongside the main path.

"Gil, your parents…"

"They won't mind waiting. This is important."

He settled them down on their makeshift seat, clutching her hand in his and resting it in his lap, taking time to pick over his words.

"Anne, now that we're engaged…"

"Gilbert, really! I don't think this is at _all_ appropriate to be talking about…"

"When did we ever care about propriety, Anne?" he cocked a questioning brow.

She blew out a breath. "Since yesterday afternoon, I should think."

Gilbert muzzled a smile. "I'm more than happy to leave propriety to an Andrews or a Sloane, or even a Lynde. But I want _us_ to be comfortable together, to be able to talk about everything, even the difficult things. And anyone who has certain _opinions_ about our conduct can go hang." He scowled to himself, lacing his long fingers through hers, before gentling his response. "We always used to talk, Anne-girl. And we've picked it up again since my illness. It's one of the aspects of our relationship I most treasure. I can't have us lose that."

"I don't want that either, Gil…"

"Well, then, love. The floor is yours."

Anne looked askance at him, worrying her lower lip in a way he wished wasn't quite so adorable.

"Miss Shirley, lost for words?" he teased carefully.

"It occurs to me if you've had more practice at this, it is _you_ who should start!" she hedged, with a resplendent Shirley-esque huffiness.

Gilbert couldn't resist a chuckle, nodding his dark head. "Fair play, my darling. Would you rather I begin at the beginning, or just answer your questions? As best I can, of course."

"When _was_ the beginning?" she asked despite herself.

Gilbert groaned inwardly, and gave her a wry, sheepish smile.

"If you say the slate incident, Gil, I think I'll – "

"For goodness' sake, Anne! You clocked me on the head and probably gave me mild concussion. I was apologetic but not _amorously-_ minded, let's be clear. It was rather my _head_ aching than my heart that day, mind you, and for about a week afterwards." He gifted her a curious look. "Not to mention the fact that we were virtually children."

Anne sat quietly, her mind very obviously ticking over a decade's worth of encounters. If Gilbert had dared in this moment, he would have set a long finger circling beside her temple, mimicking all those wheels turning.

"Diana once thought… ah…that when you recited _Bingen on the Rhine_ at school, well, you were directing the words at _me._ "

"I _was_ ," he replied comfortably, risking a small smirk.

"Oh, Gil…" her face heated and fell simultaneously.

Gilbert reassuringly squeezed the hand he still firmly held in his own.

"You needn't feel sorry for me, love, considering recent events," his hazel eyes twinkled fetchingly, and he turned her hand over, pressing his lips to her palm.

Anne seemed to color even more at that, though she evidently felt bold enough again to search his face.

"How on earth did you wait so long for me to come to my senses?" she sighed despairingly, eyes as grave as he had ever seen them.

"Oh, Anne, when is a prize worth the taking if it's not hard-won?" he grinned, desperate to lighten the shadows of concern that would mar the sunshine of this glorious day. He reached brown knuckles to gently graze soft cheek. "And I thought we'd made a pact, long ago, to not go over old ground."

Shell-pink lips folded into themselves at this, as if stopping further self-admonishment.

"I'll give you a hint, Miss Shirley, as to the time my feelings began to take a dramatic turn. And I believe Lord Tennyson is to blame."

It did not take Anne long to puzzle over the allusion. Her face was a comic joy in its gobsmacked embarrassment.

"Oh, Gil, no! _Surely_ not!"

"And _why_ not? Your lily maid rescue was one of my finest moments."

"But I was… I was…positively _ghastly_ to you, Gil! It still shames me to think of it! I was a wretched, ungrateful, near-drowned rat!"

"That you were," he laughed delightedly, deep and resonant, and substituted holding her hand to instead reach his arm around her shoulders. "I well remember your _little white_ _scornful face_ ** and haughty manner. And I was just furious with you. I nearly dislocated my shoulder in my haste to row away from you. But it turns out I was more furious with _myself…"_ he leaned into her conspiratorially, voice lowering. "Because all I could think about, for _weeks_ after, was the outline of your lovely lithe form in that wringing wet dress."

Anne's eyes were round orbs turned on him, her astonishment only matched by her mortification.

" _Gilbert Blythe!"_

He held his free hand up in surrender.

"I'm not saying I'm unduly proud of it, Anne, but it's the truth, my love. And that image had to sustain me an awfully long time, until we became friends, and then I found that the most tantalising response you created in me was when we shared a joke or I earned your laugh or your smile. And _they_ were the things I dreamt about…" he finished, gallantly. "Well, _mostly._ "

Anne found herself spluttering a laugh.

"Are you certain you still want to take me on?" he baited unrepentantly.

"I'm considering all my options," she sniffed.

Gilbert smirked at her. "And would you like to enlighten me as to what marvellous manoevers I managed in your dream, for future reference?"

"Not presently."

Unabashed, Gilbert chuckled, leaning to kiss her resolutely on lips that parted willingly to his touch, inviting several minutes' exploration of the mouth that had featured rather prominently in all his own midnight musings over all the years he had just alluded to. Anne matched his ardour with an enthusiasm that had him reeling, and they both broke away, breathless.

"What a pity you have no tidbits to feed _me,_ Miss Shirley…" he gulped, fighting for air and some semblance of self control.

"Tidbits?" she gasped.

Gilbert adjusted his collar and his composure, smiling wryly.

"I'll have to be content knowing I have burrowed into your affections these past four weeks, Anne-girl."

"Not just the past _four_ weeks…" Anne managed, a little leadingly.

"You mean to say you _did_ notice me on occasion?" he grinned. "All those years on the outskirts of your approbation?"

Anne turned up her perfect nose. " _Surely you own a mirror,_ Gilbert _Blythe,"_ *** she attempted airily, though her smile broke the surface of her smugness.

Gilbert let out a great guffaw, enveloping her in a bear hug, till Anne was laughing genuinely in tandem.

"I _noticed_ you, darling Gil," she paused, tucking herself into his embrace. "Goodness knows I expelled an enormous amount of energy in trying my utmost _not_ to notice you."

"I see…" he rumbled, his cheek caressing the soft, gently fragrant auburn hair at her crown.

"All I can say," Anne continued, "is I have a fair memory myself for any time you looked particularly dashing, which was too annoyingly often to contemplate now. But I must let it be known…" she lifted her head to his warming hazel gaze, "that _it is many months since I have considered_ you _as one of the handsomest_ men _of my acquaintance."_ ****

Gilbert's lips smiled under her impassioned kiss, as much a vow as her words.

"Thank you, _Miss_ Darcy…" he murmured.

"You're most welcome."

"Even more handsome than Mr Gardner?" he couldn't resist.

Anne flushed becomingly, still seemingly sensitive to even hearing his name, though Gilbert trusted that would pass.

"All I can say to _that,_ Mr Blythe," she answered, with a green-eyed earnestness, "is I was with Roy for two years, and I never dreamed of him once."

Gilbert pulled her into his arms, making room for her on his lap, and making them unaccountably, unashamedly late to meet up with his parents.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

A long walk down the lane had cured Anne of most of her reluctance to confide in her fiancé, whether it be regarding salacious dreams or nervousness about meeting his parents as their only son's intended.

However, as the Blythe homestead came into view, all her old questions and qualms returned. Were Gilbert's parents _really_ happy about their betrothal, or just putting on a brave front to keep the peace? Would the history between their two families always prove a barrier, blighting their future?

As Anne neared the steps she found the front door opening and Mr Blythe bounding down them, with a spirit – and a spriteliness – that would have put Gilbert to shame.

" _There_ they are!" he greeted, with a grin that stretched at least from ear to ear, and possibly extended further. "Forgot the way, did you?" he winked at his son, and then turned warm blue eyes to Anne.

"Welcome to the family, love," he offered simply, though there was nothing simple about the iron-strong arms immediately clamped around her.

"Thank you, Mr Blythe," Anne choked back sudden and alarming tears, reaching up to kiss his tobacco-scented cheek with a rush of fondness that overwhelmed her.

"Ah, none of _that_ nonsense, now! It's _John,"_ he determined. "Pretty good name for a young 'un, come to think it," he added unrepentantly, chuckling with pleasure in seeing a look of mild horror cross both their countenances, which had nothing to do with newborn monikers.

Gilbert's arm snaked around her waist in gentle, gestural moral support, as John Blythe admired the fit of her pearl ring on slim finger, and then they all looked up to see Mrs Blythe framed in the doorway.

Anne broke away from Gilbert's ballast, taking reverent steps towards the woman she was still unsure was friend or foe, despite the proclamation she wore on her left hand. She reached Ella Blythe to stand before her, as she had once stood before Marilla, sick with uncertainty and not entirely sure her legs would continue to hold her upright.

Ella glanced down at the circlet and then up to Anne with a flash of a smile that lingered in the depths of her son's hazel eyes, and before a single word was exchanged, both women fell with some strange gravitational pull into one another's arms, loudly and robustly weeping for several minutes, to the bemused relief of their menfolk.

* * *

It was ironing day for Diana; an arduous chore made bearable only through the satisfaction of seeing piles of clean, pressed laundry at the end of it. She often left it all in great towering piles to greet Mother Wright's eagle eye when she came to bestow kisses or advice on whichever respective Fred she encountered first through the back door.

Both husband and namesake were farewelling that lady now, and having given her own dutiful kiss, she had ducked back inside to brew a fresh pot of tea, for which Fred would join her, wandering back into the kitchen with little Fred cradled in his strong, safe arms. They would take a mid-day moment together, cooing over Fred Jr, relaxed and reassured of the happiness of their little world, and depending on the sleepiness of the baby, might even make a tentative move towards some respite of their own…

Though Fred was taking an awfully long time outside, and Diana couldn't distinguish whether that was Mother Wright's wagon leaving or the wheels of a new buggy approaching.

" _Di!"_ Fred suddenly bellowed from around the entrance of their snug house. "Say, _Diana!_ "

For all his quiet demeanour, Fred Wright Sr's voice could adopt the projection, depth and subtelty of a foghorn.

Diana huffed as she threw off her apron, retracing her steps and stomping around the corner in exasperation, sure that whatever emergency Mother Wright had perhaps double-backed for would _not_ be equal to the fuss it was generating. And there, at an astonishing sight, she stopped short.

Gilbert Blythe was talking to Fred, long lean body inclined to catch something whispered low into his ear, arm draped with casual abandon across the shoulders of Anne, who stood next to him, clucking at baby Fred. Diana watched with widening dark eyes as Gilbert, grinning, focussed back on the baby himself, kissing Anne most affectionately on the cheek as they bent to survey him together.

 _Kissing. Anne. On the cheek._

Anne herself, radiant, turned as she heard her friend's approach, with the starry-eyed smile she had once reserved for her own declaration of undying love for Diana Barry.

Diana looked from Anne to Gilbert to an unduly pleased-looking Fred, and needed no other confirmation.

Her squeal could be heard by her mother-in-law having just turned onto the main road, and was certainly noted by baby Fred, who decided to joining in the squalling, if there was squalling to be had. But Diana didn't notice; she and Anne were running towards one another, the years melting away in their joyous, excitable embrace.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

"Just the one final stop, Anne-girl," Gilbert smiled as they paused on their way through the main street.

"Do you think that's wise, Gil?" Anne cautioned, as the destination of his errand came into view.

"My accumulated years of wisdom were eroded about two hours ago, sweetheart, when Fred abandoned me to get back to work, you and Diana disappeared upstairs to hunt down her wedding scrapbook, and I was left to converse with baby Wright, whose conversational skills were not really up to par."

Anne's beautiful smile never faltered. "And yet, there he was, gurgling merrily when we returned, as if you had just told him the most incredible story."

"Well, it wasn't a story. But it _was_ a poem."

"Let me guess," she indulged. "Tennyson? Wordsworth? Keats?"

" _Nein._ I told you, Anne, all my fine learning had fled me."

"Well, what then?"

" _Bingen on the Rhine."_

Anne groaned dramatically as he handed her down.

"Oh, Gil, really!"

"It is a most lamentable, _tragical_ tale, Miss Shirley."

"Don't I know it. And now so does baby Fred." Anne looked from Gilbert and then up to the post office with appropriate trepidation. "Gil, are you _sure?_ Once we go in, our news won't be _ours_ anymore, to tell as we wish. It will just be the latest gossip making the rounds of the sewing circle."

"And will be forgotten in a week. And in the meantime, Carrots, would you have us forget our friends?"

This was more than enough challenge to have Anne sailing through the doors with queenly grace, where Gilbert then charmed a clearly goggle-eyed Mrs Sloane into sending a late telegram before business closed for the day. Anne and Gilbert whispered to themselves regarding changes to wording, and then proudly presented the document; their first joint publication.

"Today, if you would please, Mrs Sloane."

"Certainly, Gilbert," that veritable lady quickly scanned their message with a professional eye, soon turning puce in the effort not to refer to communications that were meant to be private, and unable to resist darting glances to Anne's left hand, which remained frustratingly concealed in Gilbert's own.

"Thank you, Mrs Sloane," Anne smiled benevolently. "Good day."

Gilbert's pride in Anne taking his arm made him so puffed up he was uncertain they'd fit back through the door.

"Well, we've done it now," she sighed helplessly.

"We have, Anne-girl. I thought Mrs Sloane would self combust!"

"Never mind _her_ face - I wish I could be there to see _Phil's_."

"She might take a few minutes to decide whether she should laugh or cry."

"She might at that!" Anne giggled.

"Still worried that our news is out?" Gilbert's look was searching.

Anne contemplated this. "Now that it's done… well, no, surprisingly. Not anymore. Actually, all I feel is…"

Interuped, they both turned to the clatter of the _Closed_ sign in the window. Gilbert made a great show of consulting his watch, which clearly demonstrated the puzzling scenario of the Avonlea Post Office closing a full ten minutes early. Their laughter might have been heard by Mrs Sloane herself, as they tripped down the stairs, if she was not at that very moment putting on her hat and contemplating how soon she might walk from the back door exit to the Pyes'.

"I believe your response was rudely interupted, my love," Gilbert reminded as they settled back in the buggy and he took the reins.

"Response?" Anne was busily ensuring her ring did not ensnare the cuff of her blouse.

"To repeat, _actually, all I feel is…_ "

Anne looked around at the surroundings of their dear little home town, and then back to the man beside her. Soon the sun would set on the first full day of their engagement. She could not have contemplated the feelings that stirred in her when she had returned to Avonlea, shutting herself away in the night to beg anything in request for Gilbert to live. And then, later, for him to forgive her. And, finally, to know the new, hidden secrets of her heart.

And now… her answer was the easiest she would ever give, aside the answer she had given in accepting him.

"All I feel is… joy."

* * *

 _Mrs Philippa Blake_

 _Patterson Street_

 _Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

 _Dear Phil_

 _Took your excellent advice. Thrilled to announce Anne and I are happily engaged. Full details to follow. Love to you and Jo._

 _Gilbert and Anne_

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 28)

** _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 28)

***elizasky, _Within a Forest, Dark_ Part II Chapter 64 'Slaying Dragons' (quote slightly modified)

Without a doubt one of my favourite things any character has said to any Gilbert, ever.

****Jane Austen _Pride and Prejudice_ (Ch 45) (quote slightly modified!)


	13. Chapter 13 Anticipating Part One

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to everyone still touching base with this story, and to my gorgeous reviewers. Thank you also to those I cannot respond to directly - and apologies, as always, when I take so long to do so. I had been struggling and am so bolstered by the very many wonderful responses I continue to receive. Thank you all!

We are actually closing things out, believe it or not (particularly for the story I said was going to be five or six chapters over two or three weeks!) For my own sanity I have split this chapter into two, as I wanted to try to cover a range of responses and relationships in the lead up to Anne and Gilbert's wedding (and leverage off some conversations that Lucy Maud had already included). Hence there is quite a large amount of directly quoted canon here and going forward, either to give context or to lead into my own take on particular conversations… and sometimes because the original text is so wonderful I cannot leave it out!

Those who know me will not be surprised that I have time-jumped all of _Anne of Windy Poplars/Windy Willows,_ not only because others have backfilled that time so well themselves, but in all honesty, three years without a direct word from Gilbert always does my head in. And I want to write of these two together, not apart, and as this is a canon-compliant story that doesn't leave a lot of leeway. So except for a reference to the end of _Windy Poplars_ we pick up at the very beginning of _Anne's House of Dreams,_ my second favourite of the novels after _Anne of the Island._ Thank you all yet again for your kindness and support for this and my other (not forgotten!) stories.

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

 _ **Anticipating**_

 _ **Part One**_

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

 _Anne's laugh, as blithe and irresistible as of yore, with an added note of sweetness and maturity, rang through the garret. Marilla in the kitchen below, compounding blue plum preserve, heard it and smiled; then sighed to think how seldom that dear laugh would echo through Green Gables in the years to come. Nothing in her life had ever given Marilla so much happiness as the knowledge that Anne was going to marry Gilbert Blythe; but every joy must bring with it its little shadow of sorrow. During the three Summerside years Anne had been home often for vacations and weekends; but, after this, a bi-annual visit would be as much as could be hoped for._

 _"You needn't let what Mrs. Harmon says worry you," said Diana, with the calm assurance of the four-years matron. "Married life has its ups and downs, of course. You mustn't expect that everything will always go smoothly. But I can assure you, Anne, that it's a happy life, when you're married to the right man."_ *

* * *

Anne's laugh now announced them as she and Diana tripped gaily down the garret stairs, both looking as if they could be well persuaded to engage in another evening of _revelry and confession_ ** as of old, notwithstanding the fact that the little dark-haired cherub resting on Diana's generous hip was rather too young for such salacious confidences.

Marilla smiled softly, interrupting her duties to give the downy little head an affectionate stroke, noting that the youngest Wright was taking after her mother, in looks at least, evidently to Diana's not-so-secret delight.

"Marilla, I'll just see Diana out," Anne held open the door, walking with her to the shade of a nearby friendly elm where they would wait for Fred and Fred Jr to finish their errands in town and come to collect their infinitely more precious cargo. Diana collapsed gratefully against the trunk and nestled Small Anne Cordelia between her knees; she looked up expectantly for Anne to join them but found her friend instead pacing up and down, her earlier easy mirth fading from her pretty, pale gamine features.

"Anne? What's wrong?"

Anne's apprehension was like a sudden cloud obscuring the sunshine of their high summer.

"Gilbert's due back tomorrow."

"Well yes, of course, at long last! We discussed it upstairs. Isn't that a _good_ thing, darling, considering you're to marry him?"

"Oh, Diana! I've longed for us to be reunited, and for nothing to ever separate us again…"

Diana quirked a knowing dark brow, deftly redirecting Small Anne from the crop of dandelions making a play for her mouth. " _But…?"_

Anne looked about with almost comic exaggeration, before declaring her news in a flustered aside.

"Rachel had a little chat with me, yesterday."

"Oh?" Diana felt her curiosity rise in accordance with the growing flush to Anne's cheeks.

"And she… she just wanted to… talk to me, as, er, one _married_ lady to…"

" _Oh,"_ Diana interrupted in quick comprehension.

Anne paused her explanation and her pacing, instead wringing her hands in new agitation.

"Diana, she made it seem as if… as if… I should be prepared for armed combat! That as a _wife_ I might be… ah… called upon to… well… at any hour of the day and night, and that men could be rather… _insatiable…_ in their demands!"

Anne's cheeks had flared crimson by this point, making her wide grey eyes dazzling orbs of horrified wonder.

"Well, I should think that Thomas Lynde, God rest him, _was_ rather, after ten children," Diana smirked.

"Diana! I'm serious!"

Diana brushed away a dark tendril with a still-soft, dimpled hand. "Alright then, Anne, then so I will be too. Don't listen to every old biddy who delights in talking about _it_ as if they're bragging about their war wounds. Do you really think that's how it will be between you and Gilbert? Or that it's been like that these four years for Fred and I?"

Anne grimaced internally, feeling she would rather not add _any_ mental pictures of Diana and Fred in such circumstances, whatever the feeling behind them.

"Fred is a dear, Di. Even _I've_ long seen that. And you're both so loving and natural together, that, well…"

" _Sit,_ Miss Shirley," Diana demanded, firmly patting the grass beside her. Anne did as bid with a little exasperated huff, scooping up Small Anne to rest in her lap, providing distraction and cover if required.

"Fred and I _might_ be natural together, Anne, and I'm pleased that's how we come across, but it wasn't always so, despite our best intentions and our love and trust of one another. It takes time. And, to be honest, a bit of practice, I guess, like any… _skill."_

Diana Wright turned to Anne, the latter following her words avidly.

" _Skill?"_ Anne echoed uncertainly, her mouth downturning in distaste. "That's hardly romantic, Di! You make it sound like it's a task that needs to be mastered, like geometry or… or… conjugating Latin verbs!"

Diana gave a resolute nod. "You had better believe it, darling. If you go into this thinking you'll be swept away on a tide of romance and feeling, with a string quartet playing in the background… well, that's a recipe for disappointment, Anne. Intimacy up close is wonderful, don't get me wrong, and it _can_ be romantic, and _absolutely_ lovely – for the woman too – when everything is going right. But it can also be a little overwhelming, and sometimes embarrassing, and it can also be… _awkward_. At first, anyway. You have to get to know one another on a completely different level. It's all so raw and you're so vulnerable – the menfolk, sometimes, most of all, you know. All the stolen moments during an engagement…" Diana trailed off, giving a small, wistful smile, "they make lovely memories, but it's different when suddenly there's just the two of you, with nothing left between you but a big old bed and three years of waiting."

Anne bit her lip, sighing and hugging close the gorgeous little girl in her arms.

"It's been longer for Gil, of course…" she murmured, eyes downcast.

"Longer?"

"The _waiting,_ you know. Three years, plus all those years at Redmond, and a few years before that besides, according to his own past testimony."

Diana smiled fondly, taking up Anne's free hand in her own.

"Gil loves putting you up on a pedestal, but you know _he's_ also the one to give it a little nudge now and then to keep things interesting. You mustn't think you _owe_ him something, Anne, just because he realised he loved you first. Is that what's _really_ worrying you?"

Anne risked a look, searching concerned dark eyes for all the answers to too many questions.

"That, and being a doctor's wife, and moving away from everyone to Four Winds, and - "

"I thought you said not twenty minutes ago that Four Winds was _the most beautiful harbor on the Island_ and you couldn't wait to furnish your _tiny, delightful castle in Spain_ * there."

"It _is_ , apparently! And I _can't_ wait!" Anne protested.

" _So_ , then?"

"What if… oh, Di… what if I'm not any _good_ at any of it? Keeping a house. Being a hostess. Being a wife… even, well, being a mother…" she held fast to a now-squirming Anne Cordelia, whose compact, plump little body was taking on a Wright-like strength in protest. "What if they don't take to me? I'd feel dreadfully that I've let everyone down… Gil most of all."

"Anne Shirley!" Diana admonished, holding out her arms for her daughter. "You could dance naked 'neath the full moon and Gilbert would brag about it to everyone the next day. And as for the rest of it… well, I've never known you to fail at anything in your life! You knew more about childrearing than _I_ initially did. And you've charmed most of Avonlea, the whole of Redmond, and all those Summerside Pringles to boot! I very much doubt the residents of this little coastal community are going to be any different."

Anne blinked back sudden, sorry-for-herself tears. "Oh darlingest of Dianas, _what_ will I do without you?"

Diana stood, brushing down her skirts, all the better to manage the sturdy little bundle she placed back to explore at her feet.

"You have me for a month, yet," she smiled benevolently. "And then I'm going to wave you off wishing love and luck. In return you are going to write me long, juicy letters about how much fun you and Gilbert are having with the sort of learning that _doesn't_ come from books!"

Anne laughed despite herself, trading her tears as she leapt up nimbly for a fierce embrace that was only interrupted when both women heard the sounds of Fred's approach.

Anne watched Diana turn to her husband's shout from their buggy with a rapturous glow that still made her looks the envy of all their acquaintance.

"I take it Fred mastered his new _skills_ in good time, then?" came the coy question at her friend's ear.

Diana Wright scooped up her daughter and farewelled Anne with a kiss.

"Anne, I think you'll be delighted to find that Avonlea boys are _very_ quick learners," she grinned, waving up to her husband and son as they halted before them.

* * *

 _There was more excitement in the air of Green Gables than there had ever been before in all its history. Even Marilla was so excited that she couldn't help showing it-which was little short of being phenomenal._ ***

She sat with Rachel on the verandah, the two women resting companionably together, both enjoying their tea, the fine weather and the respite Anne had insisted upon, whilst the bride-to-be cleared her own head - and her nerves – by taking Dora to choose some fabric for the younger girl's dress for the wedding. Anne's declaration there was to be no formal bridesmaid had been received with some consternation, so much so that Anne had somewhat relented. Dora would not accompany her down the aisle – or in this case in the walk towards the orchard – but would be permitted to hold the bouquet when Anne took her vows, and perhaps grapple with her train should the ground prove treacherous.

 _"Well, thank goodness that Anne and Gilbert really are going to be married after all. It's what I've always prayed for," said Mrs. Rachel, in the tone of one who is comfortably sure that her prayers have availed much. "It was a great relief to find out that she really didn't mean to take the Kingsport man. He was rich, to be sure, and Gilbert is poor-at least, to begin with; but then he's an Island boy."_

 _"He's Gilbert Blythe," said Marilla contentedly. Marilla would have died the death before she would have put into words the thought that was always in the background of her mind whenever she had looked at Gilbert from his childhood up-the thought that, had it not been for her own wilful pride long, long ago, he might have been her son. Marilla felt that, in some strange way, his marriage with Anne would put right that old mistake. Good had come out of the evil of the ancient bitterness._ ***

"You think Gilbert walks on water, Marilla Cuthbert," Rachel tutted.

"No such thing, Rachel! He's not a saint; just a good man, which is all I've ever wanted for her," Marilla deflected.

"No saint, indeed! No man _is,_ for sure and certain, and I told Anne so myself a few days ago."

"You told her _what?_ " Marilla quailed, putting down her cup unsteadily.

"Only what she should expect, come marital relations. Goodness knows _someone_ had to!"

Marilla's blue eyes grew wide and rather horrified.

"Rachel, I hardly think that – "

"Oh, just steady yourself there, Marilla. It's all perfectly fine! And she's marrying a doctor, so there's _that_. I dare say those two will spend so much time talking about it and around it that they'll fall down exhausted anyway."

Not for the first time did Marilla feel the impotent frustration of her spinster status. Her opinions, her feelings, were all negated by the cold, hard lack of her experience. It was the one area in which she was trumped and in which Rachel had triumphed, and sometimes it still felt it meant nothing that she, and Matthew too, had raised Anne all these years, as much as any parents, with all the trials and tribulations and, yes, the victories and joys and the heartbreak.

"You shouldn't have said something, without me, Rachel," Marilla sighed heavily, though her words fell well short of a scolding.

"Well, I'll be sure to telegraph my intentions in future," came the expected huff, though glimpsing Marilla's crestfallen face, before she again schooled her features, made Rachel temper her tone. "Sure as I love Anne too, and just want to prepare her for this next phase, is all."

"Of course," Marilla nodded, giving a wan smile. Her circumstances weren't Rachel's fault, naturally, and it would hardly pay to be angry. It was a long-awaited, happy time and she would not allow anything to make it less so.

They resumed their tea, though Marilla felt an intangible emotion rise, swallowing it back down quickly. She couldn't quite pinpoint its flavour, but it tasted very much like regret.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Dr Gilbert Blythe, newly minted General Practitioner, boarded the train with spritely spirit if tired tread, seating himself by the window in the quiet compartment, which bore the hush, as he did, of a long day that was still yet to end. The satchel placed carefully at his feet contained a raft of official papers comprising his future, though none so symbolic as the gleaming new black doctor's bag in the overhead hand luggage; the huge trunk he had gratefully given over to the porter seemed to house most of his recent past; and in his breast pocket was found the tantalising talisman of his present. Gilbert reached long fingers made skilful over the previous three years into his breast pocket, unfolding the pages of looping script that, along with its sender, held his heart.

 _"I've come to another bend in the road. I've written you a good many letters in this old tower room these past three years. I suppose this is the last one I will write you for a long, long time. Because after this there won't be any need of letters. In just a few weeks now we'll belong to each other forever . . . we'll be together. Just think of it . . . being together . . . talking, walking, eating, dreaming, planning together . . . sharing each other's wonderful moments . . . making a home out of our house of dreams. Our house! Doesn't that sound 'mystic and wonderful,' Gilbert? I've been building dream houses all my life and now one of them is going to come true. As to whom I really want to share my house of dreams with . . ."_ ****

Gilbert looked up as the train chugged out of the station of Glen St Mary, pausing to catch a glimpse of the surroundings he trusted would become as familiar to him as Kingsport, or even Avonlea. Their _House of Dreams,_ as Anne put it with her characteristically romantic phrasing, would be the snug little white house on the bluff, overlooking Four Winds harbour and the grand sweep out to the gulf. Just thinking about bringing Anne back there, as his new bride, caused such a swelling of pride and longing and excitement within him, he could have cheerfully burst in anticipation of it and willingly - and now rather expertly - stitched himself back up again.

 _"Three years sounded endless at the beginning, Gilbert,"_ he continued reading, though he could well have memorised every word. _"And now they are gone like a watch in the night."_ **** Gilbert sighed deeply, nestling his dark curls against the headrest, politely begging to differ. Three years of medical school, only seeing Anne on infrequent occasions… it had been the purest agony, to have her emotionally so close and physically so far away. In his case, absence could not have made his heart grow fonder, for that was not possible; instead absence had been a dull, dread ache he carried around with him, like a jacket he could not shrug off, only partially relieved by one of her many lively, loving epistles.

 _"I'm a wee bit tired after a month of exams and farewells and 'last things.' For a week after I get back to Green Gables I'm going to be lazy . . . do absolutely nothing but run free in a green world of summer loveliness. I'll dream by the Dryad's Bubble in the twilight. I'll drift on the Lake of Shining Waters in a shallop shaped from a moonbeam . . . or in Mr. Barry's flat, if moonbeam shallops are not in season. I'll gather starflowers and June bells in the Haunted Wood. I'll find plots of wild strawberries in Mr. Harrison's hill pasture. I'll join the dance of fireflies in Lover's Lane and visit Hester Gray's old, forgotten garden . . . and sit out on the back door-step under the stars and listen to the sea calling in its sleep._

 _"And when the week is ended you will be home . . . and I won't want anything else."_ ****

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek to prevent an unashamed grin that might have looked rather maniacal to is fellow passengers. That Anne was complete merely just with _him_ was a sentiment that reminded him of that magical afternoon at Hester Gray's… _I don't want sunbursts and marble halls… I just want YOU. *_ **** Those words had echoed and reverberated for him, down through the arduously long tunnel of three long years, with Anne the light waiting for him at the end of it. It had been the most difficult week of all, this final one separating them. He had known there was wisdom in Anne returning to Avonlea whilst he journeyed from Kingsport to the Glen, where he would endeavour to finalise a living and secure a house for them, and he had employed himself diligently to that task, meeting with Great Uncle Dave and Dr Parker and signing contracts for taking over the practice; organising a small loan with the bank manager to tide them over in the month set aside for their honeymoon; and inspecting too many properties to mention.

But at last, everything was in its place… except for him, in transit from their new home to his old one… on this last journey back to Anne.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne stood silent sentinel by the kitchen window as the _violet dusk_ gave way to the deepening indigo of a soft summer twilight. She tried not to replay the _little stings of Mesdames Bell and Andrews_ over in her mind… their unexpected visit, towing a contented, stalwart Jane behind them, had _temporarily shadowed_ her _surface pleasure in her pretty bridal things… but the deeps of happiness below could not be thus disturbed…_ ***

Gilbert would come. _He is coming, and I am here._ ******

 _'The stars,' she whispers, `blindly run;  
A web is wov'n across the sky; _*******

Anne tried to focus on the other lines, but her expectant heart had made rational thought impossible. She was a strumming creature of sensation; behind her she heard the rustle of Davy with the newspaper at the table after their early supper; she discerned the low murmur of Dora showing Marilla and Rachel the pretty blush satin she had settled upon for the wedding; but all her senses were straining towards the tall, lean, broad-shouldered figure she was hoping to conjure, emerging as if Puck from the darkening canopy sheltering the lane.

And then… there he was.

 _A happy lover who has come  
To look on her that loves him well… _*******

Anne lost no time in polite preamble; rushing from the window to the door and uncaring that it clanged shut loudly behind her; she was already leaping down the steps and running towards her future.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert heard Anne before he saw her; as Green Gables came into view there was the slam of the door and fast-approaching footsteps; and then, that unmistakable, radiant glimpse of red.

" _Gilbert!_ "

" _Anne!_

They met in a glorious confusion of entangled limbs and seeking lips. Anne, breathless, laughed into his mouth as his arms swept her quite literally off her feet; any further greeting was given over to their elated reunion, and he had temporarily lost the power of speech anyway.

 _(Several minutes omitted)._

"Oh, darling, how I've missed you!" he finally managed, more raggedly than he might have wished.

"Beloved… how I've missed _you!_ "

"I thought you said the time had gone _like a watch in the night!"_ he teased, his bright look to her one of boundless ardour and affection.

"Oh, Gil, when on earth did I say that?"

"In your last letter from Summerside," he answered indulgently, pausing to plant a kiss at her temple.

"Gil, don't hold me to such nonsense. I felt our separation every hour of every day!"

He chuckled with delight, overcome to have her properly in his arms again, for now and always.

"I'm sorry I was late getting back. I went from the train to my parents and then straight here."

"Oh, Gil, you'll be exhausted! And _famished!"_

His hazel eyes flashed with mischief. " _You_ are all the nourishment I need, Anne-girl."

This earned him a goodly number of additional kisses, Anne's lips migrating from his mouth to cheek to chin in a marvellous audaciousness that had him wishing the remaining weeks would pass as quickly as she had previously claimed the last three years had.

He took her hand, now, and _they wandered down to the birches of the brook, which had been saplings when Anne had come to Green Gables, but were now tall, ivory columns in a fairy palace of twilight and stars. In their shadows Anne and Gilbert talked in lover-fashion of their new home and their new life together._ ***

 _"I've found a nest for us, Anne,"_ Gilbert announced with a little thrill, once they were seated and settled. "I wish you had been there with me, love – or that we could have made the decision together - but we needed _somewhere_ to hang our hats once we leave here after the wedding."

 _"Oh,_ Gil, how wonderful! _Where? Not right in the village, I hope. I wouldn't like that altogether."_

 _"No,"_ he sighed. "Believe me, I investigated every dwelling in the entire place, but _there was no house to be had in the village. This is a little white house on the harbor shore, half way between Glen St. Mary and Four Winds Point. It's a little out of the way, but when we get a 'phone in that won't matter so much._ But Anne…" he put an arm around her, drawing her close, " _the situation is beautiful. It looks to the sunset and has the great blue harbor before it. The sand-dunes aren't very far away-the sea winds blow over them and the sea spray drenches them."_

Anne paused to breathe in the image he had summoned, her eyes shining and her face raised, as if almost able to feel the sting of the spray the wind carried on it. She then snuggled in, laying a head on his shoulder, relaxing in contentment.

 _"But the house itself, Gilbert,-our first home? What is it like?"_

 _"Not very large, but large enough for us. There's a splendid living room with a fireplace in it downstairs…"_ he gulped down the throb in his throat to have just realised himself they would have their own hearth, as he had so wished for three years ago, _"and a dining room that looks out on the harbor, and a little room that will do for my office. It is about sixty years old-the oldest house in Four Winds. But it has been kept in pretty good repair, and was all done over about fifteen years ago-shingled, plastered and re-floored. It was well built to begin with. I understand that there was some romantic story connected with its building, but the man I rented it from didn't know it."_

As he might have anticipated, Anne's head bobbed up, her sensitive soul alive to the curiosity of the mere mention of _romance,_ and he kissed her perfect nose in response.

" _He said Captain Jim was the only one who could spin that old yarn now,"_ Gilbert continued leadingly.

 _"_ And _who,_ pray tell, _is Captain Jim?"_

 _"The keeper of the lighthouse on Four Winds Point. You'll love that Four Winds light, Anne. It's a revolving one, and it flashes like a magnificent star through the twilights. We can see it from our living room windows and our front door."_

"Our very own star to guide us…" she answered dreamily. _"Who owns the house_ then, Gil _?"_

 _"Well, it's the property of the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church now, and I rented it from the trustees. But it belonged until lately to a very old lady, Miss Elizabeth Russell. She died last spring, and as she had no near relatives she left her property to the Glen St. Mary Church. Her furniture is still in the house, and I bought most of it-for a mere song you might say, because it was all so old- fashioned that the trustees despaired of selling it. Glen St. Mary folks prefer plush brocade and sideboards with mirrors and ornamentations, I fancy. But Miss Russell's furniture is very good and I feel sure you'll like it, Anne._ At least, I hope so. _"_

Anne reached back to stroke the frown line of uncertainty that came between his brows.

"I know I will, Gilbert. I've not grown up at Green Gables for nothing. I know the value of something solid and decent, built to last."

"Well…" and here he blushed. "Ah… the mattress for the bed of course is new."

 _"So far, so good," said Anne,_ turning businesslike to hide her own flushed cheeks and _nodding cautious approval. "But, Gilbert, people cannot live by furniture alone. You haven't yet mentioned one very important thing. Are there trees about this house?"_

His burst of laughter was most relieved.

 _"Heaps of them, oh, dryad! There is a big grove of fir trees behind it, two rows of Lombardy poplars down the lane, and a ring of white birches around a very delightful garden. Our front door opens right into the garden, but there is another entrance-a little gate hung between two firs. The hinges are on one trunk and the catch on the other. Their boughs form an arch overhead."_

 _"Oh, I'm so glad! I couldn't live where there were no trees- something vital in me would starve."_ Anne cuddled into him tightly, the cooling air making her crave his warmth all the more. _"Well, after that, there's no use asking you if there's a brook anywhere near. That would be expecting too much."_

Gilbert could hardly help his smug smile, as if he himself had been in conference with Mother Nature, putting forth this very idea. _"But there is a brook,_ my love _-and it actually cuts across one corner of the garden."_

 _"Then," said Anne, with a long sigh of supreme satisfaction, "this house you have found is my house of dreams and none other."_ ***

Gilbert didn't trust his own choked response, so merely held his wife to be and let the tide of happiness wash over him.

* * *

Time marched forward as Time does, propelled by the industrious work and plans of a small army of faithful souls, determined to have the very first bride of Green Gables ready come September.

Invitations were sent; to all of _Gilbert's people,_ though Doctor Dave and his wife would remain in Glen St Mary to welcome them _;_ the Harrisons; the Allans; the Echo Lodge contingent, who were to cheerfully give up the delights of Europe for the unmissable spectacle of this wedding; Jane Andrews; Phil and Reverend Jo; and naturally Diana and Fred and the children. Old friends now far-flung would be missed and their absence lamented; Miss Stacey, Aunt Jimsie; Priscilla and Stella, chief among them.

" _It's really dreadful-the way people get scattered over the globe,"_ Anne sighed dramatically one afternoon.

 _"The Lord never intended it, that's what," said Mrs. Rachel authoritatively. "In my young days people grew up and married and settled down where they were born, or pretty near it. Thank goodness you've stuck to the Island, Anne. I was afraid Gilbert would insist on rushing off to the ends of the earth when he got through college, and dragging you with him."_

Anne momentarily thrilled to the prospect of being dragged off by Gilbert to venture to parts unknown, and could barely bite back the observation that all Rachel's own children had done likewise, but thought it safest to be circumspect.

 _"If everybody stayed where he was born places would soon be filled up, Mrs. Lynde."_

 _"Oh, I'm not going to argue with you, Anne. I am not a B.A. What time of the day is the ceremony to be?"_

 _"We have decided on noon-high noon, as the society reporters say. That will give us time to catch the evening train to Glen St. Mary."_

 _"And you'll be married in the parlor?"_

 _"No-not unless it rains. We mean to be married in the orchard- with the blue sky over us and the sunshine around us. Do you know when and where I'd like to be married, if I could? It would be at dawn-a June dawn, with a glorious sunrise, and roses blooming in the gardens; and I would slip down and meet Gilbert and we would go together to the heart of the beech woods,-and there, under the green arches that would be like a splendid cathedral, we would be married."_

 _Marilla sniffed scornfully and Mrs. Lynde looked shocked._

 _"But that would be terrible queer, Anne. Why, it wouldn't really seem legal. And what would Mrs. Harmon Andrews say?"_

 _"Ah, there's the rub," sighed Anne. "There are so many things in life we cannot do because of the fear of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews would say. ` 'Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis, 'tis true.' What delightful things we might do were it not for Mrs. Harmon Andrews!"_

 _"By times, Anne, I don't feel quite sure that I understand you altogether," complained Mrs. Lynde._

 _"Anne was always romantic, you know," said Marilla apologetically,_ giving her a warning frown.

 _"Well, married life will most likely cure her of that," Mrs. Rachel responded comfortingly._

 _Anne laughed and slipped away to Lover's Lane, where Gilbert found her; and neither of them seemed to entertain much fear, or hope, that their married life would cure them of romance._ ********

"I wish I could give you that wedding ceremony of your dreams, Anne," Gilbert declared upon hearing the story, drawing her onto his lap under the sun-dappled foliage, "if only to properly scandalise Mrs Harmon."

"I've probably done more than enough of that in my time," Anne replied smilingly, and completely unrepentantly, running pale fingers through his hair, luxuriating in his curls, "though I guess I should rein in my behaviour and start preparations to become a _proper_ doctor's wife, _Doctor_ Blythe."

"Not on my watch," he growled, loving the sound of his new title from her lips. "I'd be most disappointed to wake up beside a sober matron and not my woodland nymph."

Anne blushed becomingly at his reference, radiant as ever her younger, fairy-crowned incarnation had been.

"Oh, Gil…" she sighed, changing tone on a mercurial breath. "Do you think marriage will change us? I fear it _has_ to… and perhaps not for the better. I don't mean taking on adult responsibilities and such… and of having to be mature at least _some_ of the time. I mean… will it change who we _are_ to one another? Will it change how we regard one another?"

Gilbert's heart lurched to see her suddenly pensive look, and the questioning shadow in those haunting grey eyes. He stretched out his long legs, adjusting his grip on her, wanting to give an answer that he felt to be the truth but that did justice to their special dynamic.

"I think it does have to change us, my love," he contemplated seriously, "but that doesn't have to be something we fear or regret, only that we acknowledge and embrace. If we keep talking, Anne… and I mean this, sweetheart … as we are now… as we've learned to do these past years… then we will never let anything become a burden or a barrier. I can't think of any way in which I could feel about you differently, apart from an even _more_ intense love and admiration, though I hardly think that's possible. If I get caught up in my new role, though… if I become too focussed or distracted… then love, _you_ will need to be the one to tell _me._ Never let it come between us."

She looked into his loved and loving face, stroking the side of it studded with his stubble with unbearable gentleness and not a little awe, marvelling at his ability to bolster her with his words and the steady reassurance behind them.

"Gilbert Blythe, I'll have you know I plan to be the _utmost_ distraction for you…" she declared, with a knowingness that went beyond that of the flirtatious fiancée, seeming to reach out to some wifely wisdom that would soon be reality and not just promise.

"I'm counting on it," he replied fervently, seizing her lips fiercely, and silencing any other qualms with the _other_ wonderful way they had learned to speak to each other.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

* _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 1)

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 7)

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 2) (including the long conversation between Anne and Gilbert about that actual House of Dreams)

**** _Anne of Windy Poplars_ (The Third Year, Ch 14)

***** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 41)

******the aching last line of one of my favourite novels, Audrey Niffenegger's _The Time Traveller's Wife_ (2003), which was on first reading, and continues to be, one of those works that both inspires and rewards. Her second novel _Her Fearful Symmetry_ is even more audacious and singular, if not quite as warm and fuzzy! I couldn't help the anachronistic use of the line here.

*******from Tennyson's _In Memoriam A.H.H._ which I have previously quoted, and from where my story title is drawn.

******** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 3)


	14. Chapter 14 Anticipating Part Two

**Author's Note:**

At the start of this chapter, I was most anxious to wrap things up and get to the wedding… and a little bit beyond! But I am finding that Anne and Gilbert are taking longer than expected to begin to farewell their nearest and dearest, and so this is the second of three chapters to do with 'Anticipating'. Thank you for your patience (and perhaps forbearance!) else this chapter would be 13,000 words… not that I haven't done _that_ before, elsewhere on this site, but it is no longer a sustainable way to write. I hope that you therefore enjoy following this second last day before their nuptials, with more to come, including some familiar canon scenes.

Reviewers have been so kind in asking about my intentions for this story. I apologise that I am always changing my ground rules. I am hopeful that the wedding will be covered in one longish chapter and then another chapter will cover Anne and Gilbert's arrival in Glen St Mary and their rather unexpected welcoming committee (as in Chapter 5 of _Anne's House of Dreams_ ). I then anticipate that there will be at least one chapter dedicated to that Very Long Evening where we learn fascinating details about Captain Jim and John Selwyn (Chapters 6 and 7 of _Anne's House of Dreams_ ) (cue: sigh!) and THEN one-two further chapters that will be a T-rated Wedding Night lead-up before we launch back into M-land for the Wedding Night proper and several further chapters perhaps taking in the first one-two weeks of their honeymoon. So possibly the T section of this story will be 20 chapters in total now with a further 3-5 M-section chapters. I hope that makes sense! I know that After the Wedding has been rich fodder of late for some wonderful writers and I hope to do this lovely period justice in my own way.

I am not finishing with Anne and Gilbert nor their new little house… for I am tremendously excited to share that I am already planning a canon-compliant sequel to _Let Love clasp Grief,_ telling the story of _House of Dreams_ from Leslie Moore's point of view. She has been someone who has always fascinated me, and I am thrilled to delve into this complex and compelling character. I hope to continue her narrative only shortly after finishing Anne and Gilbert's… I'm afraid your guess is as good as mine as to when that will be, but I am hopeful to stick to regular Sunday updates from now on… including my other neglected stories!

As ever, thank you to all my lovely readers and especial thanks to my gorgeous reviewers. Your support makes my day. If I still haven't thanked you properly please know that I will, and I hold my thanks in my heart also x

Love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

 _ **Anticipating**_

 _ **Part Two**_

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Two days before the wedding that had captured the imagination of all of Avonlea, though various (uninvited) Pyes had been overheard commenting that an outdoor wedding under the trees was one step away from perfect heathenism, and they were astonished Reverend Allan would allow it, Fred called round to Blythe Farm. He found the prospective groom still as a scarecrow, Ella Blythe at his feet rehemming the trousers of his soon-to-be wedding suit.

"At least if you accidentally stab him, Mrs Blythe, there's a fair chance he can put himself back together," Fred flashed a sly grin, to which Gilbert responded with expressive eyeroll and Ella, as _gay, frank and light-hearted_ * these days as ever anyone could remember her, tittered most indulgently, and insisted the Best Man stay to tea.

"Thank you kindly. I wish I could," Fred's pleasant, open face betrayed the true regret of all beleaguered young fathers, ever on the lookout for a moment's respite, "but I must get this trestle table to you and head back before Diana misses me."

Gilbert eagerly offered a hand, shucking out of his good trousers and into his old ones, kissing the smile that lifted his mother's cheek and joining Fred outside. Working together they hauled the table and a few much needed chairs from the cart to be safeguarded in the Blythe's barn with the rest of the outdoor provisions until Gilbert or John later transported them to Green Gables.

"So, how are you holding up there, Gil?" the two old friends had paused outside the barn to enjoy the midday sunshine.

"Pretty well thanks. But your question there's got me thinking, now, that I _should_ be worried about _something_!"

"What about your speech for the wedding?" Fred teased.

"What about _yours?_ "

"It's all in hand…" Fred turned his face up to the sun, smiling to himself.

"Now I _am_ worried…" Gilbert mock-grumbled, grinning all the same.

Fred crossed his strong arms, leaning against the doorframe of the barn, so at ease with himself and the universe that Gilbert felt a queer throb of envy. _Where_ had that red-faced, shy, stammering young man disappeared to? Gilbert hardly wanted him back again, but was eager to know the secrets of his metamorphosis.

"You look _happy,_ Fred," Gilbert stated the obvious, marvelling all the same.

Fred smirked, but his look grew serious. "I am," he answered simply. "And so will you be."

Gilbert shoved his hands into his pockets, expelling a long and suddenly sombre breath. "I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, moving Anne and I so far away. It will take me a few solid years to build up my own reputation in the community. We won't be able to come back here easily in that time. We won't have any family around us, save my Great Aunt and Uncle, if… well, if children come… and meanwhile, we're away from most of the family here and you and Di. Marilla's getting older, and so are my parents, especially Dad… if he were to have trouble managing the farm…"

"Whoa!" Fred interrupted, holding up his work-roughened hands and biting out a laugh. "Let's go back to that bit where you said you were holding up _pretty well!_ "

Gilbert, shamefaced, found himself chuckling despite himself. "Sorry. Didn't mean to open the floodgates, there."

"Are you _really_ worried about all that?" Fred questioned, brows raising.

"Yes… and no," Gilbert absently kicked at a stone with his shoe, his face momentarily taking on a schoolboy scowl. "Weren't _you_ worried about anything at this stage?"

Fred's mouth quirked. "Mostly I remember that _I was scared… that_ Diana would _change_ her _mind at the last moment like Rose Spencer._ ** And both of us were too concerned with _not_ fainting during the ceremony, to worry too much of anything that came _after._ Except the wedding night, of course."

Gilbert groaned with dramatic force. "Don't _you_ start on that, too! Dad has been trying to have a word with me for _days_ on that score, I'm positive."

Fred chuckled now himself, rather too merrily for Gilbert's liking. "Your Dad was always pretty _graphic in his answers_ *** to all that stuff, as I recall."

Gilbert gave him a look that carried with it all the teenage trauma of past _tete-a-tetes_ with John Blythe regarding the birds and the bees – and only wished his father had employed a _few_ such euphemisms here and there, for his own poor son's comfort if nothing else.

"I think I know the basic idea by now," Gilbert replied high-mindedly.

"Good, then. That'll get you through the _first_ week of the honeymoon, probably."

Fred gave another pleased bark of laughter at Gilbert's wondering expression, reaching over and up to clap him on the shoulder, as the two former boy-comrades walked back to Fred's horse, the years falling away with their strides.

Fred paused at the cart, turning back to his friend with a determined look.

"Gil…"

"Yes, Fred?"

"It'll all be fine, you know. You're still on the Island. Only a phone call away now, or a train ride. Marilla has lots of people around her; Rachel Lynde; the twins; the Harrisons; _us._ And as for your folks…" he took a glance back at the proud little homestead, "we'll keep an eye on them, of course. Never a question. But I'd like to see _anyone_ try to get your old man to ease up when he hasn't a mind to."

"Pay that thought," Gilbert replied, his throat closing over with sudden emotion. "Thank you, Fred. You and Di. For everything, though all these years. It means the world to know you're here and that…"

Not trusting himself, Gilbert abandoned the rest of the sentence and clasped Fred in a tight hug instead, uncaring as to how sappy he felt he looked, let alone sounded.

"I'll miss you, Fred."

Fred was brusque in his answer, deep voice wavering, and gave him an embarrassed punch on the arm.

"You'll be too busy to miss me, _Doc_ Blythe. All the old dears of the Glen will be lining up for you to examine them. Bunions, rheumatism… it'll be any excuse to get a look at the new young doctor."

Gilbert shook his head, his smile wry, allowing the riposte, and waved up to Fred as he seated himself and took the reins.

"I'll miss you too, Gil," Fred admitted in his unfussy way, smiling a mite sadly and turning the horse for home.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Earlier that morning, Anne had awoken with the dawn, heart fluttering in panic at the mental list of jobs that began to scroll through her mind at dizzying speed. Whereas weeks ago the wedding had been a far-off fantasy, now it was as real as the worried, too-pale face that frowningly reflected back at her in the glass.

Marilla and Rachel had fussed over her the final fitting of her wedding dress the day before, and now it hung on the outside of her wardrobe, in silent conversation with the brilliant emerald green suit that was her going away outfit, the one that would carry the new Mrs Blythe… _Anne Blythe? Mrs Gilbert Blythe?_ _Mrs Doctor Blythe?_ … all the way to Glen St Mary, and then onwards to Four Winds. The trunk in the corner of her room held all her worldly goods – or, at any rate, the most _intimate_ ones, including the trousseau even Mrs Harmon Andrews had admired – and there were others downstairs; one of linen and soft furnishings and as many books as she could manage, and the other awaiting their wedding gifts, including what seemed a lifetime's supply of Marilla's preserves. She hoped Gilbert would arrange to have his trunk sent along to the station ahead of time, at least, or else they might collapse under the weight of their combined packing before volunteer coachman Paul Irving had even managed to get them out of Avonlea.

She was drawn into the vortex of preparations from thereon; someone had to assist Dora with her own final fitting and send word to have Minnie May produce her promised loan of shoes; Davy had outgrown his good trousers without telling anyone and was dispatched to beg the borrowing of a longer pair from Ralph Andrews; Mrs Harrison had insisted on making the wedding cake but now found she hadn't a platter large enough to transport it; no one knew what Gilbert and Fred were doing about boutonnieres and if they would clash with Anne's intended bouquet of pink roses. Marilla fretted over the food and Rachel fretted over the weather; all knew that John Blythe was fretting the imminent arrival of Aunt Maria Maria; Gilbert arrived that afternoon with his load of trestle table, chairs, a crate of Blythe apple cider and his mother's good lace tablecloth to find Anne in a maelstrom of baking, red-faced and increasingly harried, and as soon as he had unloaded, drew her away without a moment's pause, throwing over his shoulder for anyone who stopped long enough to listen that he and Anne would return in an hour or so.

"Gilbert! But there's so much to do!" Anne pleaded, hot and irritable, and more irritable still not to be a serene goddess sipping tea on the verandah whilst awaiting his arrival.

"And it will still be done without _you,_ love," his firm new doctor tone informed; smokily attractive, if she was perfectly honest, as he towed her away by the hand towards the calm and the cool of the Haunted Wood.

Anne could feel her frantic heart slowing with every step, and by the time they had emerged back into the golden sunshine, before their fabled wild apple tree, she had recovered some of her equilibrium, though there was nothing to be done about her drooping hair.

Anne had not been here often, in their intervening three years; she fondly remembered one time, in the giggly, giddy euphoria of their new engagement, where they hardly saw the poor tree, having eyes only for one another… Then, there had been a few drowsy, mellow afternoons that first full summer together, lying relaxed on the rug and feeding one another fruit… but the opportunities thereafter had dwindled, and now, perhaps, it would be the last time in a very long time. She gulped to herself, looking up to the tree, glorious in its profusion of blossoms, dripping with russet red offerings that were already blanketing the ground, poised and proud.

Gilbert noted her shining eyes with a tender look.

"The old girl is doing all right for herself," he smiled, gesturing for them to sit, and leaned his back against the broad trunk, drawing her to then lean on him.

"Yes…" Anne breathed, not trusting herself in the moment with more.

"And _we_ are too, aren't we, Anne-girl?" his question was a rumble from deep within his chest, and she looked up from her comfortable, comforting perch on his shoulder to meet the searching in his hazel eyes.

"Of course, Gil…"

"But..?"

"There _is_ no _but_ in my world at the moment _._ There is only an _oh gosh, yes Rachel_ and the occasional _for Pete's sake."_

Gilbert laughed, the sound soft and warm enough to make her want to wrap herself in it.

"Then I will add to that! _Blooming brilliant!_ exclaimed my father just before I came over, having just gotten word that Aunt Mary Maria's travel plans have been delayed, and instead of arriving tonight it will be on the morning of the wedding, and with any luck he and I might miss her before the ceremony completely."

Anne laughed herself now, a little uneasily, shuddering to think that fearsome woman would be sitting there on her wedding day, casting her eagle eye over their beautiful arrangements, wondering what on earth had persuaded Gilbert to take _Annie_ as his lawful wife…

"Everyone else I believe is here," Anne mused, "although Phil and Jo won't arrive until tomorrow."

"I don't fancy them that old trip from Kingsport," Gilbert acknowledged, rubbing his cheek against her hair and inhaling deeply. "Though some very nice memories were made for me early on whenever you'd get weary, sweetheart, and rest your head as you've been doing now…"

"Goodness, I'm sure I wasn't altogether conscious to remember that myself!"

"You _weren't,"_ Gilbert grinned. "You'd fall asleep and then would awake with a start, all big grey eyes, wondering how you got there, and then would spend the rest of the journey denying to yourself that it had ever happened!"

Anne sighed deeply. "I spent so much energy pushing the thought of us away, Gil… I feel like going back in time and giving that silly girl a shake. She made us miss out on so much."

"Oh, darling, be kind to her. How was she to know? There was only this clumsy boy, falling all over her, desperate to win her and not really sure how."

"Not so clumsy now…" Anne's breath hitched as she took his beautiful brown hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. "These hands will hold a stethoscope steadily to a young child's chest, or over an older patient's heart. These fingers will check a pulse and this palm will soothe a fevered brow. And these arms will cradle a newborn you have just helped to birth… maybe… maybe even ours."

Gilbert had gone very still in the wake of her words, fighting for composure. Anne couldn't have known what an unexpectedly emotional day he was having, but when he turned to clutch her and bury his face in her hair, she felt the tears drop on her cheek and knew they had been his.

"Oh, Anne, my love…" he rasped. "You don't know how much it means to hear you say that. I fear sometimes I've chased this dream of mine only to trample over all of yours… And here I am now, taking you away from everyone and everything you love just to seize it… I can't even give you a proper honeymoon anywhere, and…"

"Hush such talk, Gilbert Blythe! Don't you know that _your_ dream has become _mine_ as well? Or that all I've ever needed, since I thought I had lost you, is to be with you, _wherever_ that is? And as for our _honeymoon…_ " and here her eyes sparked alluringly green as she drew his face to look at her, "I can think of no other more romantic destination on this earth than the two of us together in our dear little cottage… our own House of Dreams."

Just as before, Gilbert chose an embrace in lieu of words, crushing her to him and daring to thrill at the sensation of this wonderful woman in his arms.

"I love you so much, Anne Shirley," he affirmed, pausing to seize mouth, cheek and throat with his lips. "But I can't wait to say I love you to Anne _Blythe."_

"I can't wait to be able to answer to it," she offered huskily.

Gilbert sighed deeply, pausing for precious moments to remember this time, and all their others, where they had found refuge in their beautiful surrounds, cherishing the simple pleasure of sitting together under a tree. Reluctantly he glanced at his pocket watch, and gave Anne a kiss atop her head.

"Do you think you're ready to go back, Anne-girl? Only on the understanding you are _not_ to worry yourself over arrangements any longer."

"Yes, Doctor Blythe," she answered, a little saucily.

"Mmm… why do I get the feeling _you_ are going to be one of my more challenging patients?"

She smiled enigmatically, and watched her tall, handsome almost-husband rise in a typically fluid motion, taking his offered hand and shaking out her skirts. Anne turned to place her own hand upon the trunk, and Gilbert, with a warm smile of remembrance, did the same.

"Bye-bye, beloved tree," she whispered,

" _Sweets for a hundred flowery springs_

 _To load the May-wind's restless wings,_

 _When, from the orchard row, he pours_

 _Its fragrance through our open doors;_

 _A world of blossoms for the bee,_

 _Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,_

 _For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,_

 _We plant with the apple-tree."_ ****

Gilbert gulped audibly beside her.

" _Flowers for the sick girl's silent room_?" he ventured, his tone as depthless as the look in his hazel eyes as he was transported back, in a too-vivid flash, to a younger man who had known that circumstance well.

Her only answer was a gentle smile and an even gentler kiss.

They made their way silently across the glade, hand in hand, about to merge back with the dark woods except for a sudden yelp from Anne.

"Boutonnieres!" she announced.

"Pardon, love?"

" _Boutonnieres!_ "

"Buttonholes?"

"Yes, Gil! We need to know which flower you and Fred intend to wear with your suits! Just so it doesn't clash with my bridal bouquet."

Gilbert's expression betrayed how obviously charmed he was to think that such exacting detail had gone into their arrangements. "And what are _you_ carrying, sweetheart?"

At her bemused look, he remembered himself, chuckling softly.

"Oh, of course. You'd rather not tell me that!"

"Best seen rather than described, on this occasion, Gil!"

"Well…" he cast his eyes back about the sunny glade, as if seeking assistance from their surrounds. "I had a notion for a terrific bunch of violets, all bright and proud and – "

" _Gil!"_ she swotted him on the arm, laughing despite herself. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Indeed not," he gave an impish grin, knowing that poor beleaguered bloom had been ever blighted for them both, due to its unfortunate association with Roy and Convocation.

"How about…" his brow furrowed, and then he smiled as if struck by divine inspiration, "a sprig of apple blossom? There is a riotous young apple tree in our backyard, Miss Shirley, covered in them, that I believe you are responsible for. You and…" he indicated backwards, " _that."_

Their apple tree had begotten a new apple tree, proudly growing up towards Gilbert's bedroom window as her beloved Snow Queen once had her own. From that little twig offered so long ago, on a fateful morning, a new tree had grown strong as their love.

Anne beamed up at him.

" _Perfect._ "

XXXXX

After a long and reluctant farewell, Anne saw Gilbert head off for some last minute supplies for his mother in the village, and turned back to Green Gables, noting Davy lurking by the barn.

"Davy!" she called, twice, till it became obvious that he was doing his best to avoid her. Anne walked with the determined tread of her schoolmarm days, suddenly anxious to seek him out. She had seen him the whole of the summer but had she really had a single proper conversation with him? She and Dora had bonded more closely than all their previous years over the wedding and Anne's gentle encouragement of some tentative, girlish confidences, but this formerly boisterous boy, who used to run into her arms without hesitation, who had howled in the closet over her initial departure for Redmond, had become a somewhat diffident acquaintance, watching all the preparations around him with a frowningly suspicious air.

"Davy, darling! I'm glad of the chance to see you! It's been so busy lately."

"It's alright, Anne, I got the trousers from Ralph," he called out, immediately on the defensive, watching her approach with narrowed hazel eyes.

Anne came to a stop before him, seeing with a start of surprise that he now easily equalled her in height, and little wonder his trousers didn't fit him because even his arms down to his fingers seemed impossibly elongated. With a pang she realised her years at Summerside had come at the cost of their closeness; she had left him still a boy but had returned to note him on the cusp of manhood, already ably working the farm alongside Mr Harrison and with plans to manage the harvest mostly himself the next year. He had once come to her with every hurt and worry, or even wrote to her of them if the matter pressing enough, but Anne knew this was no mere childish concern of the past, such as Marilla insisting on him tied to the railing when fishing with his friends. She felt the flood of feeling coming from him as a consuming wave, feeding his scowl, and was horribly afraid it was disappointment in her.

"Davy-boy," she gulped, annoyingly uncertain. "Why don't we sit together for a moment?"

"I'm fine. I'm sure you're busy," he responded shortly, feigning detachment.

"Not too busy for _you,_ darling. Though I'm sorry if it seems like I have been."

His eyes flashed to her, momentarily, but it was enough to see the unguarded hurt blistering within them. Anne bit the inside of her cheek to ward off her sudden tears. _How_ had she let this happen? She had chalked up a certain remoteness in his attitude towards her to growing pains, but this was far more personal. She wanted to reach her arms around him, to quickly soothe the hurt she had perhaps helped create, to stretch out a bodily bridge spanning those lost years, but that would only have him running for the hills. Instead she tried to tread softly, downplaying the next moments on which, perhaps, everything would turn.

"Would you walk with me for a little bit, instead, love? I need some air to clear my head. And I desperately need an opinion on the best spot for our ceremony down in the orchard."

Mollified slightly, or perhaps merely curious, Davy obliged her, and she linked her arm through his companionably, setting off towards the well-worn path she would take in two days' time as the first bride of Green Gables. Perhaps Davy himself would bring his own bride here one day, though that future thought seemed impossible to countenance at the moment, with his blonde hair still falling in his eyes as it did when he was younger, making her long to brush it aside. As she tried her best to engage him in harmless chatter he eventually relented enough to join her, finally relaxing into his schoolboy grin to trade some secrets. He was full of local news, the anecdotes pouring out of him as if an unstoppered barrel, including some awful tricks they had played on the Avonlea schoolmaster the past year, and the very interesting conjecture that he believed Ralph Andrews to have a crush on Dora.

" _Really?"_ Anne was more than a little diverted by this news, stifling a giggle to think she had once given over her own opportunity to marry into the mighty Andrews clan.

"Yep. Milty Boulter doesn't think so, so we've bet each other a new fish hook on whether he'll ask her to dance at the wedding or not."

"Davy! That isn't a very kind wager to place."

"Maybe not," he smirked as the mischievous boy of old. "But I reckon he will, if he gets enough encouragement, and _I'll_ be the one able to give it and Milty won't even be there to stop me."

Anne sighed in aggrievement for Ralph and Dora both at these machinations, though she smiled internally at the spark that seemed to light his face in recounting it all, and listened avidly as they reached the orchard and he gave his firm opinion, after surprisingly thoughtful assessment, that the very spot she and Gilbert had agreed on weeks ago could be the only place to hold the ceremony, barring bad weather.

"I think you're right, Davy," Anne smiled beatifically. "Thank you, darling."

"And you'll need to sweep the path clear on the way down," he added, "or some of the ladies might lose an ankle."

Anne looked back to the path in surprise, noting this somewhat obvious detail for the first time.

"You're right about that, too."

Davy nodded comfortably, before a frown again overtook him, and he thrust hands into his pockets, kicking at a tree root.

"So this Glen St Mary will be better for you, then?" he ventured, brow darkening anew.

" _Better,_ love?"

"Better'n Avonlea."

Anne's grey eyes widened in pained understanding. "Oh, Davy, not better! Just different. This is _Home._ It always will be."

"Why move so far away, then?"

"Oh, love…" she sighed. "Gilbert needs a practice. He needs a community he can work in…."

"So? Let him work _here._ He'll be alright as a doctor. Folks like him – they'd go to him."

"I certainly hope so," she answered gently, trying not to smile at this hardly fulsome praise. "But the practice here can't really support another full time doctor, and we can't very well shove Dr Spencer out of his job. The Glen however _does_ need a new doctor, so there was an opening for him, and he had to take it, Davy. Otherwise it might have been even further away for us; one of the bigger towns in Nova Scotia, or even Montreal or Toronto."

Davy paused, processing this.

"At least now you can reach us by train, in a few hours, and you can even phone round to us… here at Green Gables, or you could go round to Diana's, or the Harrisons, or the Blythes… anyone would be happy to place a call for you."

"Never thought Marilla'd get the phone in," he conceded.

"Me neither," Anne risked a smile now, nodding enthusiastically.

"And you'll come back? For visits?"

"Whenever we can. And don't discount any visits _you_ arewelcome to make to _us._ "

There was a long, identifiably important pause, where Davy seemed to weigh his next words in the balance.

"It's just that… it's not as if I'm not used to you going away. You were always off back to Redmond, or then to Summerside. But this feels more final. Like whenever you come back, things'll be different. You won't be _my_ sister anymore… you'll be _his_ wife."

Anne's heart lurched, and she tried not to plead. "I can still be both, darling."

"Yes, but the wife part will be more important to you."

Anne did step up to him, then, to lay a hand on his arm, her tone as earnest as she could make it.

"People's _roles_ in life might change, but their feelings for the people they love don't. I love you and everyone here. That will stay constant. But you must see… that even _your_ role is changing, love. Taking on more responsibilities on the farm… helping to support Marilla and Dora and Mrs Lynde… we are all so proud of you, Davy. _I'm_ proud of you."

He seemed to brighten at this, and perhaps might have given in to a blush if he had allowed himself.

"I like farming," he conceded. "I'm calmer when I'm out here… not as bothered by stuff. Mr Harrison's taught me a lot. And Fred. And Mr Blythe, too…"

"They are all excellent farmers, so you're learning from the best. And Gilbert is so glad to know that, Davy. About Mr Blythe. It's a wrench for him to leave _his_ family, too, but it will be such a comfort to him to know that Mr Blythe has someone to discuss farming matters with… to pass on some of his own knowledge… and to sit down with someone whom he could come to consider a friend."

Davy, so intent these past weeks on his own impending loss, had not really considered anyone else's. He nodded to himself, digesting her words more slowly than he had anything in his life.

"That's good for Gilbert…" Anne now pressed her advantage, "but would you do something now for _me_?"

"Sure…" he ventured slightly uneasily, eyebrows raised in question. "Fred's not backed out of bein best man, has he? Because I'm not much good at making speeches and all…"

Anne allowed a little laugh. "You're safe there, Davy. Diana would drag Fred here by the feet if she had to. But it occurred to me as we were walking here, and I've presumed it but haven't asked you. Gilbert and I will walk down from the house together for the wedding, as I've no father living, nor Matthew, to give me away. Dora will walk alongside Rachel. But would you escort Marilla, Davy? For me _and_ for her?"

For that moment time receded, and she saw the play on his face of all his old boyish enthusiasms, and the vulnerability that a nose for mischief had never quite disguised.

"Of course," he nodded, his smile expanding proudly. "I'd be glad to do it… for you _both._ "

Anne, giving him a dazzling smile in return, threw caution to the wind and her arms around him, relieved to feel him shyly returning the gesture.

"Thank you, darling! I will tell Gilbert to bring an extra apple blossom for your buttonhole," she beamed.

"Ah, Anne…" he cocked an eyebrow. "I think I can get my own, if that's what you want. We're kind of surrounded by 'em."

"Davy Keith…" she took his arm again, joyfully, as they headed back to the house. "This will be a unique blossom, originally from a very special apple tree. A wild one, in a secret location. Which I will share with you, if you promise not to snaffle _too_ many of the cherry tarts and plum puffs I was baking earlier."

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert had been pleased to make what was a nostalgic final trip to the store, searching out the last minute provisions for his mother's penultimate day of preparations for the wedding. Between Blythes, Fletchers, Wrights, Barrys, Harrisons, not to mention the ladies of Green Gables themselves, their guests would be better fortified than visiting royalty at a state banquet.

Gilbert was pleasantly waylaid by well wishers as he headed for the neat little house in town off the main road, pausing outside as he patted the horse, keen observant eyes taking in the trim garden and the little shingle at the side door which proclaimed the way to the book-lined office. He took a beribboned basket from the wagon – one that a smiling Anne had gifted last week when he told of his intentioned visit, knowing without asking it had been one of several left as humble offering on a long-ago doorstep, full of the sorts of goods he toted now.

A smart rap on the door was answered with a genial entreaty to enter.

"Hello, there, Dr Spencer," Gilbert grinned at their erstwhile town doctor, seated at a handsome desk filling in case notes, which he put to one side with his own broad smile.

"Hello there yourself, Dr Blythe!" the older man – now colleague – came round to grip Gilbert's hand in his own, shaking enthusiastically. They had corresponded on a regular basis whilst he had been at medical school, and he had always found the time for a quick visit on the occasions he had made it back home.

"I expected you to be run ragged about now, Gilbert, but at least you can write your own prescriptions if you need to," he gave a cheeky wink. "Here, sit a moment. I don't have anyone scheduled this afternoon. No one dare's get sick before your wedding, apparently."

"I'm glad to hear it, Doctor. I certainly hope to see yourself and Mrs Spencer there."

"Wouldn't miss it. And I will be sorely tempted to send anyone who fronts to me on the day with a stray ache or pain off to Carmody if they dare interrupt it."

"Which brings me to _this_. With ever our gratitude and thanks." Gilbert presented the hamper with a pleased flourish, resting it on the desk. "There are a few previews to the spread for our reception inside, in the very unfortunate event that you _are_ called away; an apple pie plus some tartlets and preserves from my mother; two bottles of cider from my father; the basket and a little note to your wife is from Anne; and this, Sir, is from me…"

Gilbert withdrew his pocketbook, producing a handsome business card, which he offered to the good doctor.

"My Great Uncle Dave had these made as a graduation-come-wedding gift, once it could be announced I was to take over his practice," Gilbert explained with a rosy hint of pride to his cheeks. "I wouldn't be so stupid – or so audacious - as to hand them out to local folks round the Glen, but they might come in handy at the odd conference or two. I wanted you, Sir, to have the first."

The man before him appeared at a loss for words, mouth working at his reply, before he chuckled delightedly, nodding to himself.

"An honour indeed, _Dr Gilbert J. Blythe, BA and General Practitioner to Glen St Mary, Four Winds and district, PEI._ I'll keep it close, to be sure. And I fully expect to find that name under an article in a medical journal, if not the _Lancet_ itself, in the future."

"I'll try to live up to your faith in me, there, Sir," Gilbert smiled, seating himself.

"And thank your folks and Anne for this wonderful embarrassment of riches." The good doctor looked over the basket with appreciative eyes, and then took his chair again, leaning back comfortably, arms on his stomach that was noticeably plumper than three years ago. Gilbert, proud but not vain of his lean, toned physique, sucked in his own flat stomach reflexively. He had a momentary flash of panic, thinking that he was perhaps going to spend the next forty years being paid in produce and promises, and have to be rolled out of bed by Anne every morning to begin his rounds.

"Your Uncle Dave must be proud as punch."

"Thank you, Sir, I believe he is."

"Though not _quite_ as much as your parents, I should think."

"Er, no…" It was Gilbert's turn to chuckle, and he again relaxed his thoughts, smiling at the memory of his father's blinding grin of pride at Convocation, or the image of his mother accosting random townsfolk in the street with the news of her doctor son getting his very own practice all the way over the other side of the Island.

"So, Dr Blythe, how do you feel about taking it all on?"

Gilbert blinked at the question. "I believe, Sir, that you're the very first person to ask me that. People have been so fixated on the wedding."

"Yes, well, a wedding is a single day, in the event. A career is a lifetime."

"Indeed…" Gilbert agreed, his manner thoughtful. "I'm extremely excited, but also aware of the tremendous responsibility of it."

"Yes, naturally. Sometimes you'll feel like you're working all on your own; you against the world. Important to partner up with nearby colleagues, be open to a second opinion, always keep the dialogue flowing. But it's just as important to trust your own expertise and judgment, and you'll be called to rely on it, time and time again, sometimes in fraught, pressured situations."

Gilbert nodded, expression turning solemn, steepling his long fingers together.

"And how have you found it, Sir, living and working in the same community? I am almost glad a position didn't come up nearby to Avonlea. I wonder how I would fare if treating an old school friend, for instance, and the blurring of those boundaries."

"It's an important question, Gilbert, and probably the most challenging aspect of country doctoring. I've certainly grappled with the problem myself. And the only response I can give you is there's no easy answer, and it will remain so for you as it has for me. There's no getting round that, so you'll need to learn to make your peace with it. You live and raise a family alongside the people who are your patients. And yet you are privy to their intimate lives and secrets, and are sometimes their confessor, too. It puts you on a different footing, much as you'd sometimes wish it didn't. Rather like a minister, you know."

"Yes, I can see certain similarities. A good friend, Jonas Blake, is minister in one of the poorer parts of Kingsport, and consults with his local doctor all the time."

"Yes, well, both callings are involved in saving souls, are they not?" Dr Spencer smiled wryly. "You'll get to know your own minister too, very well. A very important relationship for you to cultivate. You're both there at the beginning… and at the end. It's a unique and privileged position."

Gilbert grew contemplative to the point of moroseness, dark brows meeting together, making his companion laugh and attempt to draw him out again.

"Now, Gilbert, it isn't all bad! There's nothing like being at the coal face as you save a life, or welcome one. Nothing like healing wounds and comforting pain. Nothing like coming up with the diagnosis that makes all the difference. And nothing like encountering a miracle every now and then."

Gilbert smiled up at the allusion to his own circumstances a little over three years ago, nodding himself, remembering the turning of his own fortune and how everything since then – every late night pouring over his books; every moment missing Anne and his parents; every despairing if fleeting thought that he'd never make it to the end – was really icing on an already abundant cake.

"Well, Sir, that's the best thought of all to regretfully leave you on," Gilbert rose. "Thank you for your wisdom, your advice and your friendship. I gladly take them with me."

Dr Spencer rounded the desk to pump his hand again, accompanied by several fortifying thumps to those broad Blythe shoulders, more than equal to the task of carrying his new responsibilities.

"Best wishes for a long and fulfilling career, young Blythe," Gilbert was farewelled, with the quiver of his own pride in Dr Spencer's voice accompanying the tiniest gleam of moisture in those kind eyes under bushy grey brows.

XXXXX

Gilbert ruminated that surely not even his wedding day could feel longer than this one, as he pushed the poor horse towards home, giving her more than the usual attention as he settled her in her stall and found a juicy apple for her pains.

A companionable dusk enveloped Blythe Farm and Gilbert paused to drink it in; all the sounds and sights he had often taken for granted in his own myriad arrivals and departures, but there was the bittersweet tang of last times now.

With the benedictions of Fred, Anne and Dr Spencer still sounding in his ears, he looked to the lean figure sitting contentedly, a wisp of smoke from his pipe curling up into the air. Would he sit like this himself, in times to come, watching a son - or indeed daughter – make their way back to home and hearth? Or would he be the one, like his own father, to have to let them go?

"Hey, Dad," he strode tiredly, putting down his mother's provisions and taking a seat aside John Blythe with a suddenly heavy heart. "How goes it?"

"Pretty well," his father grinned, puffing contentedly. "Better'n expected, given our news earlier."

"Ah, yes. Our delayed Aunt Mary Maria."

"Yep. Sorrowful news indeed. Just listen to _that_ , Gil!"

"To what?"

"Silence. _How's the serenity?"_ *****

Gilbert met his father's delighted look, shaking his head wryly. "The serenity is more than fine with me. As long as I don't have to pick her up in my suit on the way to Green Gables."

"No fear. You're Uncle George and Aunt are going to meet her at the station and transport her in style to your ceremony."

"Really? How much did that cost you?"

John laughed knowingly. "A half dozen bottles of cider. And maybe twenty percent of your future earnings."

"That all?" Gilbert smirked. "Is Ma inside doing a celebration dance?"

"She's having a well-earned lie down, if you must know. Before she tackles that lot you've got in the bag tomorrow."

Gilbert nodded, leaning back in the comfortable wooden chair, sighing deeply.

"Long day, then?"

"A good day, but yes, a long one. Though I'll probably have to start getting used to that," Gilbert admitted ruefully.

John gave him a cheeky side-eye. "Long _nights_ , too."

Gilbert rolled his own eyes. "Alright, Dad, let me have it," he demanded exasperatedly.

"Have what?"

"The _talk._ You know. The wedding night and everything. I know you've been trying to have a word with me."

"Don't be daft, son. What could I say to you, a twenty-eight year old new qualified doctor coming off a three year engagement, that you wouldn't know already? More or less."

Gilbert's brows drew together. "Sorry, Dad, I just presumed…"

John waved a dismissive hand. "Any fool groom can take a bride to bed, Gil. And you're no fool."

Gilbert flushed betrayingly, unsure of an appropriate reply.

"But I _have_ wanted to bend your ear a little."

"Yes, Dad?" he asked expectantly, his tone gentling.

"Just… go easy on yourself, Gilbert. Work, marriage, honeymoon, everything. You'll be taking on a few new roles all at once, and they all bring their own demands and challenges. I know you strive for perfection. It's a thing I admire in you, son, and always have. And you coped so well with your medical studies, but there was that time before…" there was an awful pause as John Blythe considered those dread months they never much wanted to talk about. He put down his pipe with deliberation and passed a hand down his face. "That year or so studying for the Cooper, we never said anything, Gil. You worked yourself into the ground and we never said anything, and look what happened. And now you're going off to the Glen; a new husband, a new doctor, and perhaps, God willing, a new father eventually… and I just can't sit here, _this_ time, and not say anything."

Gilbert sat in a stunned and not at all _serene_ silence.

"Dad…" he swallowed hard. "Well, Dad, just note _my_ examples. _Ma_ looking after the farm those three years we were away in Alberta. _You_ looking after the farm every day I haven't been here, when you should, by rights, have had a son to take over, by now, so that at least you could ease up and…"

" _Ease up?"_ his father spluttered. "I thought we were talking about _you!_ "

"We _are,_ Dad! This is exactly my point! Haven't you ever wished, just for a moment, that I'd stay and take over the farm for you? Build a little house out the back and marry a local girl?"

"You _are_ marrying a local girl, you lump!"

"You _know_ what I mean."

"And _you,_ Gilbert John Blythe, had better know what _I_ mean. Of course I'd wished you'd stayed on the farm. For about five minutes one time when I was feeling sorry for myself. That's _my_ problem Gil, not yours. But let _me_ ask you a question here. If _you_ have a son and _he_ doesn't want to follow you into medicine, would you stand in the way of his own dream?"

Gilbert opened and closed his mouth ineffectually.

"Of course not," he answered stiffly.

"Exactly," his father replied.

Gilbert let out a long breath at the hopelessness of the argument, having had enough practice with Anne all these years to know when it was better to settle for a dignified stalemate.

"I thought we were meant to be enjoying the silence," he gave a chagrined smile.

"Just warming you up for your wife," his father gave a wink.

Gilbert allowed a small, sad chuckle, and his father clapped him on the back fondly.

"I'll be mindful of my health, Dad," he assented, "as long as _you_ will."

"Deal."

Gilbert nodded to himself, having to be satisfied with this concession.

His father raised himself slowly and stretched, and then walked over to the far corner of the verandah, where the creeping shadows had partly obscured a familiar wooden box. He brought it back, seating himself carefully, resting it on his knees.

"Your chess set, Dad? Are you fancying one more game before I go?"

"It was your grandfather's chess set, and then mine. And now it's yours." He placed the beloved box in Gilbert's hands.

"Dad…" Gilbert stuttered. "I can't…"

"Of course you can. Your mother was able to give you her ring. But I have nothing of importance to give you, Gil, except – "

"Dad! You've given me e _verything!_ "

"Will you let a man get a word in edgewise, Gilbert? I want you to have this. You might not be able to pass on much of farming matters to your children, but you can teach them other things. Honesty. Decency. Goodness. The value of hard work. And their way around a chess board."

"Dad…" Gilbert's emotional day had taken another surprising turn, and he was barely holding onto his composure. "Surely… you'd rather them learn from _you?_ It's your legacy, after all."

"And now it will be _yours,_ son. Don't be afraid to claim it."

The tears slipped unbidden from hazel eyes. "Thanks, Dad. I hope you know how much I'll treasure it."

"I just hope you don't grow too rusty with all those other… _demands_ … on your time," his father joked gamely.

Gilbert tried his best Blythe smile. "Will we have one more match, then?"

A firm hand on his shoulder squeezed tightly.

"How about we start one when I come see the new doctor in the Glen?" his own smile was offered gently back to him.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

* _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 23)

** _Anne of Ingleside_ (Ch 2)

***My winking little reference (and quote) from the fabulous Excel Aunt's _Being a Blythe_ (Ch 39)

****from _The Planting of the Apple-Tree_ by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

*****Another winking reference, this time for my fellow Australian writers and readers. If you know your classic Aussie films, you'll know this x

* * *

 **And some Correspondence…**

 _Tinalouise88:_ thank you for your wonderful run of reviews. It is really thrilling to see new eyes turned to this story.

 _Astrakelly:_ thank you sincerely for stopping by again! I hope you love this (long!) run up to the conclusion!

 _Denie (Guest):_ What gorgeous words from you! Thank you so very much and I am thrilled you are enjoying this!

 _Georgie:_ thank you for your mentioning of my incorporation of canon. I've tried to be very careful in how I weave it in and your words are very heartening!

 _Guest of July 9:_ you made my day and I am so touched by your words! Thank you so much! I also hope you are excited for M-land too!

 _Previouslyjade:_ (ch 11&12): thank you for the Davy note! I REALLY hope you like his scene from this chapter! And I am really trying to insert some humour when I can (a lot of it seems to come from John Blythe lately!) so that was a lovely note to receive.

 _Wow:_ (Ch 12): so wonderful to hear from you again! I was so pleased the post-engagement chapter worked for you! I really wanted to give my Ella Blythe a bit of a redemptive moment there. And one day I will write a very heavily Fred-and-Diana story (there is one in the works… eventually!) which might just be whole scenes of Fred… bellowing from outside 😉

 _Luna White:_ just giving you a wave hello x


	15. Chapter 15 Anticipating Part Three

**Author's Note:**

Thank you for continuing to read and support this, and me, despite long times between posts! I hope you find the wait worth it, and I am grateful, as ever, for your feedback.

I promise I will get them to the church on time (ah… the orchard…) next!

With love,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

 _ **Anticipating**_

 _ **Part Three**_

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

 _Philippa and her Reverend Jo arrived at Green Gables the day before the wedding._ * Whilst Gilbert and Jo took an eager walk down the lane, sharing their own confidences that neither later could be drawn upon to divulge, _Anne and Phil had a rapturous meeting_ upstairs in the little gabled room, _which presently simmered down to a cosy, confidential chat over all that had been and was about to be._

 _"Queen Anne, you're as queenly as ever. I've got fearfully thin since the babies came. I'm not half so good-looking; but I think Jo likes it. There's not such a contrast between us, you see. And oh, it's perfectly magnificent that you're going to marry Gilbert. Roy Gardner wouldn't have done at all, at all. I can see that now, though I was horribly disappointed at the time. You know, Anne, you did treat Roy very badly."_

 _"He has recovered, I understand,"_ smiled Anne,able at last to hear or say his name without the shadow of guilt that had long followed her.

 _"Oh, yes. He is married and his wife is a sweet little thing and they're perfectly happy. Everything works together for good. Jo and the Bible say that, and they are pretty good authorities."_

" _You_ were a pretty good authority regarding _us_ too, Phil…" Anne clasped her hand and kissed it with boisterous affection. "You put up with me not knowing my mind for so long… you wrote to Gil and urged him to _try again…_ honestly, I don't know where we'd be without you."

Those pretty brown eyes smiled at Anne warmly, though if once Philippa Gordon might have crowed about her victory, now Mrs Phil Blake hugged the happy knowledge close to her.

"Oh, honey… I think you were both beginning to move in the right direction… Perhaps I just gave that man of yours a little nudge. You know we've grown even more fond of him since he's been with us these three years in Kingsport. Jo positively dotes on him, when he isn't doting on me or the children. And Gil has been _most_ gallant regarding my cooking, it has to be said."

"I hope he's gallant over _mine,_ for I am sorely out of practice with my years over in Summerside."

"Well, they say man does not live on bread alone, Miss Shirley," that crooked smile flashed.

"Philippa Blake! And _you_ a minister's wife! I'm properly scandalised!"

"Then I have a little gift for you that I hope will make Gilbert even _more_ so…"

Anne watched her take out a small package from where she had deposited her hat and jacket, presenting it to Anne with a knowing gleam. Anne unwrapped it tremulously, astonished at the fine, filmy material falling through her fingers like a waterfall. It was of soft rose pink, smoother than satin so that Anne very much feared it was silk, with a tiny row of intermittent rosebuds at the delicate neckline, the workmanship of which she recognised with a gasp.

" _Phil!"_

"I received _two_ mind you, from one of mother's cousins, for my honeymoon," Phil now grinned delightedly. "I could hardly bear to parade in both of them before my poor-as-a-church-mouse betrothed; it seemed a meanness when it would just be a reminder of all the finery he couldn't give me. And that I didn't care a jot about any of _that_ wouldn't have mattered. But to have the _one_ extra special nightgown I thought would be a treat, and not a taunt." Her fingers reached out to stroke it reverently. "Or perhaps for Gilbert it might be a _taunt_ too…" she added cheekily, "but in the best possible way!"

Anne blushed the hue of the nightgown at the jibe. "Oh, Phil, it's so beautiful! And the rosebuds…"

"Well, yes, there's a little bit of me in there. It's hardly equal to all _your_ fine workmanship, Anne – yes I peeked into your trunk to cast my beady eye over your trousseau when you went down to arrange some tea. But it might be a little something to send you on your way… with my love, always."

Anne's slim arms went around her friend's neck without hesitation, and the two friends embraced tightly.

"Mind you… I wouldn't recommend debuting it _straight_ away… I made the colossal mistake of choosing the other one for the wedding night and I nearly gave poor Jo a heart attack. There is quite enough going on – or _off_ – as it is at that point. Best save it for a week or so!"

A blushing Anne tried valiantly to join Phil's laughter, delighted at least to find that marriage and motherhood had not dimmed her lively spirit, but that her deep happiness seemed to enhance it.

 _"Are Alec and Alonzo married yet?"_ Anne packed her new addition carefully in her trunk, lest it be inadvertently discovered by Mrs Lynde before making its way to Four Winds.

 _"Alec is, but Alonzo isn't. How those dear old days at Patty's Place come back when I'm talking to you, Anne! What fun we had!"_

 _"Have you been to Patty's Place lately?"_

 _"Oh, yes, I go often. Miss Patty and Miss Maria still sit by the fireplace and knit. And that reminds me-we've brought you a wedding gift from them, Anne. Guess what it is."_

 _"I never could. How did they know I was going to be married?"_

 _"Oh, I told them. I was there last week. And they were so interested. Two days ago Miss Patty wrote me a note asking me to call; and then she asked if I would take her gift to you. What would you wish most from Patty's Place, Anne?"_

 _"You can't mean that Miss Patty has sent me her china dogs?"_ Anne's face was a study in rapturous surprise.

 _"Go up head. They're in my trunk this very moment. And I've a letter for you. Wait a moment and I'll get it."_

Phil was nearly out the door when she turned back warningly.

"And before your start fawning all over those china dogs, Queen Anne, you must pretend you like my present at _least_ as well as theirs!"

* * *

 _That_ late afternoon through to early _evening Green Gables hummed with preparations for the following day._ * Mrs Lavender Irving, Charlotta and Paul Irving commandeered every available chair to be positioned just so before the sacred spot chosen in the orchard for the ceremony, sweeping the area clean of forest debris and ensuring the path to and from the house was likewise travelled without difficulty. It wouldn't do for the likes of Great Aunt Mary Maria Blythe to lose her footing let alone her humour, both rather tenuous prospects at the best of times.

Mr Blythe and Davy saw that the barn was refreshed with new water, hay and feed for the additional wagons and stock that would be sequestered there during the celebrations, taking blessed refuge for several moments to share a quiet cup of raspberry cordial amongst the hubbub happening outside.

The Reverend Jonas Blake and his charming, pretty, merry wife, sat out under the trees with a lively little band of assorted children, some of whom were their own, conducting an impromptu story time session that would have made the bride-to-be proud. The jolly man listened to his wife, typically enraptured, pausing to make notes to himself in the Bible he rested on his knees, whilst the laughing lady flashed a smile as she embellished her tale, not in the least sorry to have been called to offer her services here and not in the busy kitchen a short walk away.

Gilbert, Fred and Mr Harrison had quite the job erecting the little marquee on the front lawn; the white material of the tented structure billowed happily in the breeze, making spectators wonder if they would soon set sail. Long trestle tables and chairs were arranged inside so that guests would not have to brave the noonday sun at the reception on the morrow. Mrs Harrison came in and out with arrangements of flowers for each table and pointed directions for her husband regarding the placement of such. Her charming, rose-decorated tiered cake sat proudly inside the pantry of Green Gables on its own shelf, ready for its debut, and an extra-large serving platter had thankfully been found on which it rested.

Inside Green Gables sounded and looked like a swarm of worker bees had overtaken it; the humble kitchen could hardly contain the likes of Anne, Marilla, Rachel, Dora, Diana, Mrs Blythe, Mrs Barry and Minnie May, who were wrestling over final preparations and lamenting the lack of bench space. It looked like supper tonight would be taken either on the floor or on their laps in the parlour, but there was hardly a chance let alone the temptation to think about eating surrounded by so much food.

Marilla fanned herself with her tea towel and blinked repeatedly. Her eyes felt the strain of the last few days and all the iron will in the world would not ward off a headache if she stayed in these stifling surrounds. It was disconcerting having so many people in her kitchen, kind and wonderfully helpful though they were. Diana, noting her distress, pressed a glass of water to her and directed her to sit down, feeling the heat a little too much herself. But not wanting to worry Anne or alert Rachel, Marilla indicated she'd take a walk and soon found herself on the path down to the orchard, smiling as she passed the merry party of Irvings heading back up, having swept the path so clean it fairly gleamed in the soft late afternoon sunlight.

With a start Marilla realised she wasn't alone; cooled and calmed by the breeze lapping her skirts and teasing her face she did not notice the broad-shouldered figure sitting, appropriately enough, on the right side until she had walked halfway down the centre path serving as a makeshift aisle.

"John Blythe!" she offered incredulously.

"Well, hello there, Marilla," he chuckled comfortably, having turned on his chair to her approach.

Marilla stood in agonised indecision, not wanting to tread on his moment of solitude, more than a little discomfited he had interrupted _hers,_ and already regretting that they had both been drawn down here to this makeshift cathedral of her fanciful girl's imaginings.

Marilla's embarrassment had a tendency to make her snap, and she thus challenged him ungraciously.

"What are you doing here?"

A Blythe eyebrow came up, and he leaned a tanned, still-strong forearm over the back of the chair beside him.

"Don't fret, Mar. ** I wandered down from the barn for a breather. Sit awhile. Take the weight off."

Marilla was torn over taking this direction in her own orchard, or remaining standing stubbornly, and no doubt stupidly, in view of the neat rows of chairs, calling to her as much as the invoking of the old contraction he had used of her name, in the days when she herself had met him here, running down in girlish eagerness to embrace him under the apple trees.

Marilla cleared her throat and her mind against such foolish memories, and adopted Anne's queenly poise, seating herself opposite him and arranging her skirts fastidiously.

"So, here we are," John offered conversationally, nodding to himself.

It was impossible to say whom he was referring to, themselves or Anne and Gilbert, and not at all safe to conjecture, so she offered her blandest reply.

"Indeed."

This made him smile in bemusement, and there was a time when that smile had been nigh irresistible to her, particularly at close quarters and accompanied by twinkling eyes. But she was feeling too worn and melancholy to enjoy the attention, and he caught this, too, always having been so very good at reading her, except that one time when he had failed when she had most needed him not to.

He gave her a moment, casting his gaze away from her and to the trees before them, inhaling the warm apple-sweetened air and luxuriating in the scene.

"It has to be thirty years since I've been down here…" John conjectured.

Marilla knew she could be tart in her response as a green apple, or tender as a warm pie filling, and he would still treat her with the same unfailing courtesy. She had been both and more back in the day, but the fight had long gone out of her, and when she looked at him now she mostly saw the man who had raised the boy Anne would marry tomorrow, and that had been compensation enough for any of her own long-buried, blighted hopes.

"Thirty _five_ years, I should think," she offered her olive branch.

There was that chuckle, then, warm and wonderful and knowing.

"Remember the time when your daddy thought there was an intruder down here? Could have clear blown my head off, Mar, excepting Matthew deliberately leading him in the other direction."

Marilla looked at him, aghast. "Daddy came at you with the _shotgun_?"

He waved a dismissive brown hand. "I'm not thinking he was aiming _deliberately,_ mind, or that he even suspected it was me, but I clear heard the whistle of it as the pellet flew past. Lucky for me Matthew had a voice on him, after all, and his warning shout had me scramblin' for home quicker than your daddy's footfalls from the barn!"

Marilla's mouth was hanging open, and John was clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"Where was _I_?" she queried, dumbfounded.

"Probably too busy prettying yourself up back at the house for later," he smirked. "Taking twenty minutes to choose a ribbon for your hair." **

"I did _not_ take twenty minutes to choose a ribbon!" Marilla protested at this clear folly, a throaty laugh escaping at his dubious, disbelieving look.

"Well, your efforts were always appreciated, however long they took," he grinned, unrepentant. "And I learned to meet you early when we went out rather'n skulking about here. The lane was a much safer prospect, too."

Marilla's cheeks tingled at his reference to what Anne, so many decades later, would christen Lover's Lane, not even knowing quite how apt the moniker had been. When she risked a look back into those laughing eyes they had softened at the memory, or else at her face in reflecting upon it.

"Strange how the world works, hey, Mar?"

His question caused the old dull throb within her; that sad, soulful yearning for both what had once been and what could not. Her game smile to him faltered, and he saw and echoed her hesitation back to her.

"You could've come with the shotgun yourself, when my boy came calling. I wouldn't have blamed you, but you never did. I was always grateful you gave him a chance."

Marilla allowed herself a rueful smile. "More than Anne did, initially, that's for sure."

That chuckle returned. "And she didn't half make him work for it, too! I had to admire her, of a fashion, though it drove Ella plum crazy at her antics. I could have told her it was just a clear case of for the chick as for the hen!"

Marilla gifted him a glorious scowl, though there wasn't much power behind it, and they both knew it. She leaned into the caress of his laughter as it brushed past her to drift away on the breeze.

"And so, then, here we are."

Marilla nodded, for the simple observation said all you could possibly say about their unique situation; about the years falling away every time she saw Anne look at Gilbert and saw herself looking at John; of the knowledge that the events of tomorrow would bind them together as tightly as ever, and yet would not have been possible if a rift had never existed in the first place. If she had had her own laughing, curly-haired boy, she would never have had her dreamy, red-haired girl. Providence, it seemed, had provided her own answer to an impossible question.

"I'm grateful for it," Marilla assented, throat thick.

"As am I, Mar." He gave her a thoughtful look, his features morphing into another grin. "So we'll be grandparents together, after all."

She rolled her eyes, though a smile hovered. "Let us all get through tomorrow first, John."

"I'd rather fancy a little John running round…" he continued, unrepentant.

"Sure as I wouldn't wish them to name a little one after _me."_

"Got to agree with you there," he guffawed, and she might well have thrown something at him if there had been anything rightly to hand, but had to do instead with rising in abrupt affront, lips refusing to quirk in his direction, though the gleam in her eyes gave her away.

"I will see you tomorrow, John," she shook her head, a mite indulgently, turning to go.

"Mar – "

He rose himself to waylay her, leaping up even as he was fishing deep in his pocket, withdrawing a hankerchief folded neatly, and held in his large, strong hands as she once had been.

His hesitation caught her. "Yes?"

He frowned to himself, etching the faint lines in his tanned cheeks slightly deeper, though it hardly diminished his looks, and the thoughtful way his brows drew together reminded her of Gilbert.

"I was just wondering… well, I'm not real well versed in such things, but I know a girl on the day likes to carry something with her. Y'know… _something old, something new…"_ he recited, fingers unwrapping the hankerchief as he spoke. There was another flash of linen inside; delicate and pale blue, and he withdrew it, his reverence catching her notice more than the thing itself. Until she saw a once familiar pattern… an edging of forget-me-nots, the skill and delicacy of the workmanship such that Rachel Lynde would proudly lay claim to it, and the initials, _JB,_ lovingly crafted in one corner.

"You… you might remember that you…"

"Yes," she answered, in a voice she didn't quite recognise, her eyes wide. "I remember."

He had kept it, all this time, tucked away in a little hidden corner of the house, as he had tucked away Marilla Cuthbert in a corner of his heart. He didn't peruse the memory of either of them often, but he had lived comfortably with the knowledge that they were both there, and would ever remain so.

"I thought that Anne might…" he struggled, uncharacteristically. "Er, that is, if she has a mind to, that she might… well, it's old. And blue. And… borrowed."

He offered it to Marilla, who accepted it wordlessly, wonderingly.

He might prove himself a sentimental fool, now, and never mind that Gilbert obviously got it from him, with all that business over the pink paper flower he kept for years and that old dance card Ella had once discovered amongst his things. But looking at Marilla looking at her girlish gift to him, running her fingers over the stiches she had spent long nights over, remembering how she had kissed it before kissing him, like a promise that had remained unspoken and unfulfilled… he tried not to have regrets in life, but in that moment he regretted it all, and would have given his right arm in order to seize one more chance to do things over.

Well… maybe, if you looked at things a certain way, this was his chance, _here._

He was startled by the spark of tears in her eyes, when she finally looked up to him, and the flash of the fathomless, fragile expression she wore melted the years off her.

"Oh, John…"

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the new color to his cheeks.

"Well, now… it does good, on occasion, for those two college know alls to realise they didn't invent the wheel…" he gave a wink, striving to lighten the moment. "I'd be proud for Anne to carry it, and to know how and why it came to her, if it pleases the both of you, and then, if it finds it's way back to me… or you wish to keep it yourself, since you made it, or…"

Marilla clutched the talisman, clean and cared for, to her heart, before refolding it carefully and placing it in the pocket of her skirt.

"Thank you, John."

He nodded, pleased, and gestured for them to both walk back up the path together. It was a quiet, companionable sort of silence that now descended on them, of long years and longer memories. When they parted in view of the house, it was with a new air of appreciation for the other, carried forward in Marilla's lighter tread back up the porch stairs, and in John Blythe's whistle on the wind as he ventured off in search of his son.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

 _In the_ beckoning _twilight Anne_ farewelled the friends who had worked like trojans for most of the day, taking a breath and taking her chance as she _slipped away. She had a little pilgrimage to make on this last day of her girlhood and she must make it alone. She went to Matthew's grave, in the little poplar-shaded Avonlea graveyard, and there kept a silent tryst with old memories and immortal loves._ *

 _"How glad Matthew would be tomorrow if he were here," she whispered. "But I believe he does know and is glad of it- somewhere else. I've read somewhere that `our dead are never dead until we have forgotten them.' Matthew will never be dead to me, for I can never forget him."_ *

Anne stood, more tremulously than she had anticipated, the pink roses put aside from her wedding bouquet clutched tightly in her pale hands.

"Oh, Matthew!" she now addressed him directly, tears darting over flushed cheeks. "I _will never_ forget you! How I wish you were here! I know you are always with me… but I wish you were here, bodily, tomorrow of all days. I wish for it as much as I wished that I might stay at Green Gables all those years ago… and now I am leaving home, and you…"

She fell to her knees, sobbing with both intensity and volume, till she took stock of herself and then burst out in embarrassed laughter.

"Look at me…" she dashed at her tears, sniffing resoundingly. "I _am_ still that overwhelmed eleven year old inside, obviously… You were always able to centre me, to keep me steady… and Gilbert, you know, he does the same… I love him so very much, Matthew… and I think we will have a wonderful life together… and I can't think what my life would have been if you had refused to take me home from the station that day, or not fought Marilla for me, in your strong and silent way… it was _you_ who first loved me here, before Marilla, before Diana, before Gilbert… and it's to _you_ I owe everything that has come after…"

"So, darling Matthew, I will proudly wear my pearls tomorrow, though I have outgrown the puffed sleeves it has to be said. I will be watching for a sign from you to bless us, though I won't mention to Rachel that I said so. But you will know it and I will know it, and _that_ will be enough."

"Goodbye, beloved Matthew, but not farewell. I might change my name tomorrow, but I will always be your Anne of Green Gables. And you'll always be my Matthew. And I'll make sure our children will know you and know how special you still are and always will be to me."

Anne scrambled upwards, uncaring as to grass stains on her skirts, and leant over to kiss the stone that proclaimed he rested there eternally.

 _She left on his grave the flowers she had brought and walked slowly down the long hill. It was a gracious evening, full of delectable lights and shadows,_ and the sights gradually lifted her spirits _. In the west was a sky of mackerel clouds- crimson and amber-tinted, with long strips of apple-green sky between. Beyond was the glimmering radiance of a sunset sea, and the ceaseless voice of many waters came up from the tawny shore. All around her, lying in the fine, beautiful country silence, were the hills and fields and woods she had known and loved so long,_ * and she silently bade them adieu as well _._

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert had seen Anne depart and had guessed at her journey, his hazel eyes following her passage with concern until she was out of sight. After Green Gables had been returned to her residents and the last wagon of neighbours and friends had trundled off, he turned to his parents, about to head for home themselves.

"Gilbert, love?" his mother questioned.

"I just thought I'd go up and meet Anne and walk her home. She's gone to the cemetery."

His mother nodded in understanding, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

"Try not to be too long, darling. It's a big day tomorrow."

 _Didn't he know it._ "I won't be. Thanks for everything today Ma, Dad."

His father gave him a wink and then he helped his mother up to the buggy, waving them off. Hands in pockets, he watched them down the long drive with a strange sort of sadness, sighing into the knowledge that tomorrow it would be he and Anne being farewelled in this way. When the steady footfalls sounded on the floorboards above him, he knew before he turned that he would see Marilla Cuthbert framed in the doorway, watching them go herself with the expression of guarded thoughtfulness she always seemed to wear with regards his family, though her visage softened at his own look to her.

"Well now, Gilbert, I guess everything is as ready as it will be."

"I can't see as we've forgotten anything, Miss Cuthbert," he chuckled low, with a sudden tiredness, rubbing the back of his neck, her eyes seemingly drawn to the gesture as she walked down the steps to stand beside him. "Thank you, sincerely, for everything today, and yesterday, and, well, helping to support Anne and I over these three years. It's meant the world to us."

That smile flashed, then; a bright streak of light across a darkening sky. "Perhaps it will make the most sense to call me _Marilla,_ now," she prodded gently.

"It will be my pleasure and privilege to do so… tomorrow," he found his grin.

This made her smile again, and she nodded before scanning the sweep of lawn on which the pearly marquee stood proudly in readiness.

"I noticed before that you and Dad had been down to check the orchard?" Gilbert asked as casually as his voice could manage, not quite looking at her.

"Yes," came measured reply. "It all looks lovely."

He nodded, not daring to say more, and doubted that she would offer anything further herself, and he knew it was not his business anyway.

"Your father gave me something to give to Anne, for the wedding," Marilla seemed to venture before she changed her mind about the revelation.

"He did?" his brows flew upwards, though he kept the rest of his face still.

"I'd rather not share it with you until she has seen it herself." Her tone was gentle yet resolute. "And then must leave it up to her to share it if she so wishes."

"Of course…" he swallowed carefully. "Anne is at… ah, that is she went…"

"Yes," Marilla answered with a sad rasp. "I suspected so."

"I thought I'd just go up to meet her and accompany her back."

"Thank you, Gilbert. I appreciate that, and so will she." There was an infinitesimal pause. "I will wish you a good night, then, and a blessed morn to wake up to."

Her eyes met his, and the kindness in them rather undid him.

"I will… I will look after her… I will love and cherish her always, Miss Cuthbert." His assurance sounded embarrassingly like the vows he would make tomorrow, but he was uncaring how he sounded, only wishing for her to understand the depth of his feelings and his determination to honour them.

Her smile grew again by degrees, as she scanned his lean face, reaching out to touch his arm, briefly, in a gesture oddly comforting. "I have never doubted it."

He nodded, flushing in the twilight, and took his leave, walking with long purposeful strides to his destination. On his approach his heartbeat already quickened to see that flame of hair making its way towards him; a beacon drawing him ever since that first day in the Avonlea schoolhouse. His throat tightened to think he might one day gaze upon a child of theirs with that same beckoning, brilliant hue; would that genetics be kind enough to bless them with an entire titian tribe,despite Anne's long and vocal protests on the matter. Nothing would thrill him more.

 _"History repeats itself," said Gilbert, joining her as she passed the Blythe gate. "Do you remember our first walk down this hill, Anne-our first walk together anywhere, for that matter?"_ *

That shining grey gaze swept up to him, accompanied by the smile that made his heart somersault in his chest.

 _"I was coming home in the twilight from Matthew's grave—_ as I have just done now - _and you came out of the gate; and I swallowed the pride of years and spoke to you."_

 _"And all heaven opened before me," supplemented Gilbert,_ clutching her to him and kissing her fervently. _"From that moment I looked forward to tomorrow…"_ he murmured, lips wandering with his words. _"When I left you at your gate that night and walked home I was the happiest boy in the world. Anne had forgiven me."_

 _"I think you had the most to forgive…"_ Anne breathed through his ministrations upon her throat, drawing away to look at him shamefacedly. _"I was an ungrateful little wretch-and after you had really saved my life that day on the pond, too..."_

"Ahh… so she finally _admits_ I saved her life that day…" he grinned delightedly, holding her tightly. "It's only taken – what? _Ten_ years…?"

Anne swatted his shoulder. _"How I loathed that load of obligation at first!"_

"Didn't I know it! You scowled through an entire year at Queen's with me."

"But eventually… _we became friends."_ ***

" _We were friends for a long time…"_ his eyes lit at the memory.

" _And then we weren't…"_ she sighed grievously.

" _And then we fell in love…"_ *** Gilbert kissed her again, with an aching tenderness. "Although I rather had the running start on you there."

Anne smiled up at him, tracing his lovely lips with the pads of her fingers.

"Can I make it up to you by reminding that I'm _scandalously in love with you,_ **** Gilbert Blythe?"

"You may indeed, Miss Shirley," he kissed her fingertips and then bent to sweep her up and against him, close enough to feel her heave of breast and thud of heart. "That was indeed a strange Summerside missive, that one, but it ended sensationally."

"Oh, Gilbert. Can you believe tomorrow is almost here? I can almost taste it. I want to gobble it all down, like my first ever serve of ice cream all those years ago, but then I want to savour it, too, like some rare delicacy. _I don't deserve the happiness that has come to me."_

 _Gilbert laughed_ and released her, only to _clasp tighter the girlish hand that wore his ring._

"I only hope you won't be disappointed in your poor doctor husband, like you were when you found out diamonds weren't purple, Anne. Or that you find pearls really _were_ for tears after all, like the old legend says."

 _"I'm not afraid of that,_ my beloved," she reached up again to stroke his cheek. _"And tears can be happy as well as sad. My very happiest moments have been when I had tears in my eyes- when Marilla told me I might stay at Green Gables-when Matthew gave me the first pretty dress I ever had-when I heard that you were going to recover from the fever. So_ I proudly wear my circlet of _pearls, Gilbert, and willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy."_

There were tears indeed in both their eyes as they kissed again and embraced by the gate of his childhood home, before, slipping an arm about her slender waist, Gilbert walked Anne back to Green Gables. There were caresses and low words and soft laughter and the _lovers_ thereon _thought only of joy and never of sorrow. For the morrow was their wedding day, and their house of dreams awaited them on the misty, purple shore of Four Winds Harbor._

"Goodnight, almost-wife," Gilbert whispered at the door.

"Goodnight, almost-husband," Anne replied on a breath.

"I love you, Anne."

"I love _you,_ Gil."

Gilbert wanted to say more, but knew there would be _world enough and time_ ***** - so very much more time - in the hours and days and weeks and years to come. It was enough, now, to leave Anne with the promise of his shining eyes and full heart awaiting her at the bottom of the staircase tomorrow, and his parting kiss promising other things words could never do justice to anyway.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Anne slipped in the door of Green Gables, color heightened and nose pricking to the delicious aromas that seemed to permeate every part of downstairs, reaching out in an olfactory embrace she could almost touch as well as smell. Green Gables smelt like _love._ The love of family and friends for she and Gilbert both; the love that they would all sup on and from tomorrow. Her throat closed tight around the realisation, of the young, scrappy girl who only ever wanted to be loved and to belong, now as woman feeling she was held close at the very bosom of this community she was about to farewell.

As if called, Rachel Lynde, she of ample love and ample bosom both, hastened down the stairs, smile lighting to see who stood in front of her.

"Well, now, Anne! I was almost to send for a search party!"

"Sorry, Rachel, I was just – "

"No need to apologise. This is your last night here after all. You must spend it as you wish." That matronly look was knowing, casting an eye over mussed hair and rosy cheeks. "Sure as you will be mistress of your own house tomorrow, able to come and go as you please."

Anne gulped. Was Rachel about to offer some directions regarding the economies of the kitchen or, mortifyingly, an update on the expectations of the wedding night?

"Rachel, I – "

"Come sit by me a moment, Anne Shirley. I've been wanting the right time to give you these."

The two large bundles were wrapped in brown paper and lovingly tied with string and looped through with colored ribbon. Anne sat on one of the chairs by the window, taking the first offered package on her lap, as Rachel settled herself opposite.

"Rachel…" Anne protested thickly. "You have done so much already! All the crocheting and linen and - "

"Hush, child! Can't I send you off in the style I would one of my own daughters? I gave each of them a quilt or two and I'm not about to make you the exception."

There was nothing to say to this and no response she could have managed anyway, feeling on the verge of a good, hearty cry at such kindness. Instead, Anne focussed on her unwrapping, with Rachel helpfully explaining what she would find inside before her own nimble fingers revealed the same.

"There's my tobacco-stripe quilt, Anne, and the other is the apple-leaf print you were so fond of when I made it for Jane Andrews. Sure as she is so fine now that her bed is likely swathed with silk and damask and altogether an ostentatious display of cushions. But no matter, for you are staying here on the Island and going to a good, wholesome community where a spare room oughtn't be bedecked as if for the Queen of Sheba. I just suggest an airing for a day or so first and – "

The good lady was prevented from further explanations by slim arms around her, holding tightly, and tearful thanks that was as full of feeling as ever those hot-tempered words to her long ago on Rachel's initial appraisal of the _skinny, homely, freckled, red-haired_ waif first presented to her. Far be it for Rachel Lynde to be short on praise when it was due, and she had been heard to remark that Anne's features had matured into an elegance and loveliness more than equal to any progeny of Gillis, Barry or Pye, and teamed with Gilbert's still-dashing looks there was more than an equal chance of some exceedingly bonny young Blythes in the future.

But for now, Rachel only smiled, her own eyes suspiciously moist.

"There, now, Anne. Don't make your face puffy before tomorrow. I hope they get a lot of good use and that you and Gilbert find the same love and warmth underneath them that my Thomas and I felt." Rachel paused, pinkening, reassessing her words. "Ah… that is…"

Anne laughed through her tears.

"They'll be treasured for many years, Rachel, I assure you."

"Well, then," Rachel beamed. "I cleared a spot for them near Marilla's braided rugs in the trunk in the corner. Had to rearrange a few of those books of yours, mind…"

"Thank you for being here, Rachel," Anne wouldn't fuss over books when there was still so much to be said. "For helping Marilla with the twins. For being company for her when I couldn't. The spare room with its new tobacco-stripe quilt will be at your disposal. _Always."_

Rachel clucked and fussed splendidly over the packing of said quilts for several minutes, as proud as any mother hen, not for the first time congratulating Providence for getting proceedings so very right in sending the Cuthberts - and them all – young Anne Shirley.

* * *

High up in the little east gable room, later than she ought to have been, Anne sat by her window watching the sliver of September moon keeping company with a parade of stars, wondering how many sights as this one she had made her wishes on, and wondering, blushingly, how the view of that moon would look through the bedroom window of their snug little House of Dreams, seen from the safety of Gilbert's arms.

They had indeed all enjoyed a quiet, informal little last supper together, putting talk of the wedding aside to instead share tales of summers past, until Dora grew dozy and Davy grew quiet and bed called firmly to everyone.

But now there was a knock at the door, and having farewelled Marilla earlier with a quick kiss and a long embrace Anne felt sure it would be one or other of the twins, but no, it was her beloved guardian, swaddled in her dressing gown, a wry look on her face.

"I seem to remember another time I had to scold you for being up late, Anne," Marilla padded into the room.

Anne smiled to remember the night she had become engaged. "I recall _that_ was Gilbert's fault, too."

Marilla's smile sustained her until Anne joined her on the bed, but the sight of her wedding gown made her pause, and in that tiny pocket of time her resolve almost abandoned her.

"Everything seems ready?"

"Yes… I'm sure we can't have forgotten anything, Marilla, and if we have it can't have been worth worrying about!"

Anne gave an indulgent smile, drawing her knees up and resting that little pointed chin upon them. Her eyes were shining as of old and there was the air of the girl about her, still, reminding Marilla of so many scenes over so many years. How strange it would be, after tomorrow, to find Dora in here, sitting at the glass, spinning her own girlish dreams that fancy and whimsy played no part in. Marilla felt the bittersweet tang of conflicting feelings; of this coming day both longed for and lamented.

"Anne…" Marilla took a breath, now, downcast but determined. "I understand a few weeks ago that Rachel… had a word to you. Without my knowledge, mind, about certain… _aspects_ … of marriage."

Those grey eyes were wide in a suddenly aghast face. "Oh, Marilla…"

"She had no business doing it, Anne, I'll be frank. It upset me greatly, to think she may have upset _you."_

"Marilla, please don't worry yourself over it…" Anne gave mortified mutter.

"I know she meant well…" Marilla ploughed on relentlessly. "Lord knows she always _does._ And I can splutter indignantly all I want, but the plain truth of the matter is I cannot offer you any advice to contradict it, compare with it, or even to confirm it. I can't offer you… _anything."_

The admission sounded pitying and pathetic, even to Marilla's own ears, which only made that flare of annoyance in her burn more brightly. Her eyes smoked in their sockets to think _this_ was to be the conversation she had with her girl the eve of her wedding.

"Marilla… oh dearest of dears Marilla, _no!_ You mustn't think this at _all!_ Don't you know that _you_ gave me the best advice I could have received, and you did it _years_ ago?" Anne clutched both Marilla's surprisingly smooth, worn hands beseechingly.

"Anne…" Marilla frowned. "I don't understand."

A transformative smile came over that beloved face; Marilla had seen it often, over these past years, and always with the same genesis.

"Marilla… you told me to trust in Gilbert's heart. To simply trust in his innate goodness and love for me. I have done that from the moment you urged it, and it has steered me through these three years. I know it will steer me through tomorrow and the next thirty-three. It is what I most needed to hear and, in the end, all I _have_ needed to hear. I'm not saying he and I will always agree - infact I hardly think it would be _right_ if we did – but I know my trust in him is there – and always _was –_ and you were the one to help me see it."

Marilla Cuthbert felt the relief flower within her, unfolding like petals stretching towards the sun.

"So… all is well?" she rasped, fighting a broad smile and failing spectacularly.

"All is indeed well…" Anne affirmed with both words and heartfelt embrace.

Anne heard a resounding sniff but couldn't rightly say if it was her own or Marilla's, though nothing could disguise the spark of tears in those blue eyes. Marilla drew back and found a small hankerchief in her pocket, but instead of using it she looked at it with an odd little smile and handed it to Anne.

"This was given me by John Blythe today…" Marilla explained of the pale blue embroidered square. The linen was soft and malleable in Anne's fingers, and smelled old and unfamiliar.

"Mr Blythe gave you a hanky?" Anne smiled bemusedly.

"Well, I had given it to him _first,_ " Marilla gave cryptic reply, raising a grey eyebrow.

It was then that Anne opened it, to see workmanship certainly unrivalled in her own experience… of an edging of forget-me-nots, perfectly hued in subtle variations of blue and purple, their green leaves almost alive to the touch, and the strong, lovingly-crafted initials in one corner proclaiming the ownership of one _JB,_ stalwart safeguard of this gift for a staggering number of years.

"Oh, _Marilla…_ "

"He wanted you to have it for tomorrow, Anne, if you wished," Marilla was all brusque business now, "it seems to fulfil a number of requirements of the bride-to-be, or so says the legend."

Anne was unable to stop her fingers from tracing over the delicate stitches, mesmerised.

"Forget-me-nots…" she breathed. "Oh, Marilla, and he _didn't…"_

"Well, enough of all that now, Anne…"

"You loved him so, and he you," Anne answered almost defiantly, raising shining silver eyes.

Marilla wouldn't confirm or deny it, and instead darted a look at the talisman tight in her girl's grasp.

"The thread alone cost me two weeks' extra chores," she commented dryly. "I don't forget _that."_

Anne allowed her bubble of laughter, but would not be dissuaded.

"It's so beautiful, Marilla! And such a romantic gesture from you! And from _him!_ Do you think Mr Blythe has secretly carried it all these years, waiting for the right moment to – "

"I certainly do _not,_ Anne Shirley! And you will not add any fool conjecture of your own!"

Marilla's bluster was not a thing to be feared as it once was, particularly bathed in the low lamplight of the little attic room, which softened the sternness of Marilla's features even as it enhanced the eyes and air and secretive, hard-won smile that might have once so captured the interest of the man they discussed.

Anne bit back her own smile.

"Thank you so, Marilla. For trusting me with this… for having it stir the memories for you and to still accept it and pass it on… it means so much to me, this long-ago link to us all now…"

The tenuous bravery of Anne's tone was no more convincing than Marilla's bluster had been, and they both knew this, too.

"Beloved girl…" Marilla brought her hand to cup Anne's cheek. "How I will miss you."

"I forget-you-never, Marilla," Anne vowed, baptising the words with her tears.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

It obviously takes a village – in every sense! – to see these two married. Thanks for accompanying me on the extra-long journey to the altar.

*from _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 3) including all italicised parts of the Phil Blake scene, Anne at Matthew's grave and Anne and Gilbert's conversation (unless otherwise stated)

**my affectionate shout-out to _oz diva,_ who has done so much for the character of Marilla in her many stories and universes, to feed everyone's John Blythe love, and to write so well of second chances – and septuagenarian sex!

***the italicised parts of this little conversation are taken from the very end of _When Harry Met Sally…_ and how well could Anne and Gilbert be recast in a modern day classic rom-com?!

**** _Anne of Windy Poplars_ (Second Year, Ch 9)

*****Andrew Marvel from _To His Coy Mistress,_ of course… and another shout-out here, to _Alinyaalethia,_ with love!


	16. Chapter 16 Promising

**Author's Note:**

I am delighted to say there will be a reception following in the next chapter, and there will be speeches. And cake. And general merriment. "And by God", to quote the end of _My Best Friend's Wedding,_ "there'll be dancing." x

Heartfelt thanks to all my reviewers. Your lovely words, fun asides, insightful thoughts and care and encouragement mean everything. Reviews, and feedback in PM's, quite simply, are gold. All the writers here know how an ordinary day can be made magic by them, and a bad day is made infinitely better. They are not a cure-all, but rich would be the person who could bottle the feeling they engender.

This story is now exactly a year old, and on September 10th I celebrate two years on this site! I cannot tell you how transformative this experience has been. I went from writing for myself, secretive and solitary, to writing, quite amazingly, for kindred spirits across the world. To every reader for this or any of my other stories, wherever you call home, you have gifted me your time, support and attention. As a fellow reader myself, I know how precious those things are.

Finally, I found an outlet here for my Anne-and-Gilbert love (and best throw John Blythe in there too!) but I never expected to find a community, much less a group of friends. To my especial friends here, and you will know who you are, thank you for the chats, the jokes, the literary loves, the pop culture reminiscences, the armchair travel experiences, the life advice, the sounding-board sessions, the sharing, and the support x

With love,

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

 _ **Promising**_

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

 _Anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a September breeze frolicking with her curtains._ *

 _"I'm so glad the sun will shine on me," she thought happily,_ crossing the room to lift the window higher, all the better to note the promise and perfection of the morning.

Turning back in a slow, steady arc she circled the room and her blitheness skittered to a stop. This would be the last time she would ever awaken here as Anne Shirley, and the memories waltzed by her… that first unhappy morning, _when the sunshine had crept in on her through the blossom- drift of the old Snow Queen,_ and then how _the bitter disappointment of the preceding night_ crashed down on her _. But since then the little room had been endeared and consecrated by years of happy childhood dreams and maiden visions._ The time Matthew had crept silently up the stairs, urging her to make peace with Rachel Lynde, so that she might stay with them; the nights at the window looking out to Orchard Slope for Diana's signals; the hours of studying for the Queen's entrance, the image of Gilbert rising in mocking taunt before her; the embrace of home when _she had come back joyfully after all her absences;_ this very _window she had knelt_ below, _through that night of bitter agony when she believed Gilbert dying…_ the excited anticipation of dressing in her finery to see him, peering into the glass bemusedly for some hint of what he so admired in her; and the _speechless happiness the night of her betrothal. Many vigils of joy and some of sorrow had been kept there; and today she must leave it forever._

 _Henceforth it would be hers no more; fifteen-year-old Dora was to inherit it when she had gone. Nor did Anne wish it otherwise; the little room was sacred to youth and girlhood-to the past that was to close today before the chapter of wifehood opened._ To that effect she had left a little note for Dora in the top drawer of her dressing table; a prayer for happiness from one occupant to the next - indeed from one sister to another - alongside a new bottle of scent; not Lily of the Valley as of her own signature, but of the wholesome sweetness of rose.

Anne dressed with care, even though for now it was a mere housedress, and pinned up her hair loosely, so that Dora could again later work her magic, as she had long ago for that dance with Gilbert at White Sands. Her wedding dress winked at her encouragingly; the ivory satin slippers peeking out as if shyly admiring it, and her veil made a long filmy waterfall of wonder her fingers trailed along, before, with a sigh, she headed downstairs.

 _Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. Diana arrived early, with little Fred and Small Anne Cordelia, to lend a hand._ She embraced Anne passionately, her dark eyes twinkling when Anne made an anxious enquiry as to the state of Fred's nerves.

"He was all bluff and bluster," Diana claimed merrily. "Which means he's probably terrified! But all will be well."

This remark did not quite carry the breezy assurance for Anne as it evidently did for Mrs Wright. At any rate, _Davy and Dora, the Green Gables twins, whisked the babies off to the garden,_ and Diana's attention was diverted _._

 _"Don't let Small Anne Cordelia spoil her clothes," warned Diana anxiously,_ turning back to the ladies."She puts anything into her mouth, and she scrambles after Fred Jr with no care as to whether she's wearing her best dress or a paper bag."

 _"You needn't be afraid to trust her with Dora," said Marilla. "That child is more sensible and careful than most of the mothers I've known. She's really a wonder in some ways. Not much like that other harum-scarum I brought up."_

 _Marilla smiled_ knowingly _across her chicken salad at Anne. It might even be suspected that she liked the harum-scarum best after all._

 _"Those twins are real nice children," said Mrs. Rachel, when she was sure they were out of earshot. "Dora is so womanly and helpful, and Davy is developing into a very smart boy. He isn't the holy terror for mischief he used to be."_

Anne sighed, that _holy terror_ being most beloved of her, and wondered errantly whether her own boy, should she be so blessed, seen in her mind's eye wearing Gilbert's hazel eyes and teasing smile, might thus be one day so labelled. She hoped for his sake some of Gilbert's steadiness would rub off, the long-ago pulling of girlish braids notwithstanding.

 _"I never was so distracted in my life as I was the first six months_ Davy _was here,"_ acknowledged Marilla, able to look back on that time with a wry smile now. _"After that I suppose I got used to him. He's taken a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let him try running the farm next year. I may, for Mr. Barry doesn't think he'll want to rent it much longer, and some new arrangement will have to be made."_

 _"Well, you certainly have a lovely day for your wedding, Anne," said Diana, as she slipped a voluminous apron over her silken array. "You couldn't have had a finer one if you'd ordered it from Eaton's."_

Anne beamed with all the brilliance of high summer at the thought the weather, too, approved of her nuptials.

 _"Indeed, there's too much money going out of this Island to that same Eaton's," said Mrs. Lynde indignantly. She had strong views on the subject of octopus-like department stores, and never lost an opportunity of airing them. "And as for those catalogues of theirs, they're the Avonlea girls' Bible now, that's what. They pore over them on Sundays instead of studying the Holy Scriptures."_

 _"Well, they're splendid to amuse children with,"_ defended _Diana. "Fred and Small Anne look at the pictures by the hour."_

 _"I amused ten children without the aid of Eaton's catalogue," said Mrs. Rachel severely,_ missing the look ofmischief shared by the two bosom friends at such protestations, or indeed the eyeroll Marilla seemed very much to want to give into.

 _"Come, you two, don't quarrel over Eaton's catalogue," said Anne gaily,_ taking Rachel's and Diana hand in each of hers and squeezing affectionately. _"This is my day of days, you know. I'm so happy I want every one else to be happy, too."_

 _"I'm sure I hope your happiness will last, child," sighed Mrs. Rachel,_ patting Anne's hand as she shared the words as if an edict from on high. _She did hope it truly, and believed it, but she was afraid it was in the nature of a challenge to Providence to flaunt your happiness too openly. Anne, for her own good, must be toned down a trifle,_ though she was rather sorry to be the one to do it.

The ladies set aside their discussion to focus on the last of the preparations, though it was not long before a clatter of hooves competed with Davy's thundering tread as he appeared at the door.

"The Reverend Allans are here!"

This announcement definitely set the cat among the pigeons; Rachel quailing at their early arrival, caught as she was making an endless round of fresh sandwiches; Marilla trying to placate that they were perfectly organised whilst immediately mislaying the serving spoons; and Anne in an agony of indecision, wondering if it was accepted superstition that the bride should avoid the minister as well as the groom the day of the ceremony.

Only Diana, that four-years matron, kept her head.

"Davy, can you ask Dora to come back in and Mrs Allan to watch the children for a time? They might all come inside here for a little drink in a moment. Davy, you'll need to show Reverend Allan the path to the orchard so he'll know eventually where he's headed. Once their horse is taken care of come back here and wait for Fred, Gilbert and the Blythes. When the men come, you had better slip up and get changed yourself. I'll take Anne up now and the ladies and Dora can follow when they're ready."

Anne gaped in wonderment at her friend, utterly poised, practical and perfect.

"Well then, Anne?"

"You are marvellous, Diana Wright. How will I do without you?"

Plaintive plea met merry laugh. "Come this evening, Anne, you might have forgotten my name entirely!" she whispered cheekily, out of earshot of the older ladies, directing her friend up the stairs.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert's toes were perhaps the first part of him to awaken the morning of his wedding, protesting at the jarring juxtaposition of too much body covered by too little blanket within the too-small confines of his childhood bed.

He stretched where he lay, blissful beyond belief and chuckling to himself over the idea of _cold feet_ on this day of days; he longed to share the joke with Anne and lingered wonderingly on the thought that, come tonight, he could do so _;_ that tonight and every other night he would be there to warm her, and she him, as they talked and planned and mused and dreamed and… well, the other things he had best leave to his imagination for the current time.

Gilbert washed, shaved and dressed as carefully as any other day, taking time to linger in nostalgia in the room that had seen broken dreams and fulfilled ones; of hard work and delicate promises; or illness and agony and out the other side to health and hope. There would be no new occupant of this room as of Anne's; no one to pass on the wisdom of dealing with the stuck third dresser drawer or the fiddly window latch; no one but he and his parents and Anne herself to know the origin of the unusual lone apple tree by his window whose branches seemed to point the way towards Green Gables, as if reading the compass of his heart.

Downstairs and out to that very apple tree, and he undoubtedly made an amusing spectacle, assessing its blossoms like a surgeon over sutures; taking a pocket knife to the task with firm precision and being rewarded with four perfect wearable talismans of his and Anne's story. He came inside to line them up on the edge of the table, and there sat, grinning shamelessly, until his parents came down and urged him to a hearty breakfast with the bittersweet flavour of a last supper.

"You have your train tickets for later, love?" Ella Blythe later questioned, the creeping sadness of his inevitable departure manifesting as a flurry of unnecessary reminders. "And the keys to the house?"

"I have the tickets, Ma," he put an arm around her shoulders. "And Uncle Dave is leaving the keys for us. He is arranging for someone to meet us at the Glen station, though I'll remember the way I'm sure."

"Well and good," Ella sniffed, earning a sympathetic look from her husband. "Now Gilbert, remember you are not at folks' beck and call immediately. I know everyone likes to get their look at the new doctor but you are not obliged to attend to their every twinge and scrape. They are all lucky to have you and should be remembering that."

Gilbert grinned at her fierce devotion. "I'll have a month, Ma," he nodded patiently, squeezing gently. "I'll be able to build up slowly, and Dr Parker is there till I begin officially."

Ella Blythe, apparently mollified, thus changed tack.

"And make sure Anne isn't off at the first beckoning finger from the Ladies Aid, either. I know how she likes to be involved in everything but she'll wear herself out that way. A lot is expected of a doctor's wife. And she might underestimate the work that goes into taking care of a house of her own."

Gilbert bit back another grin, thinking his first act as new husband might well be to bar the door to all comers so that they could finally snatch some proper time to themselves. And remembering Anne's passionate lips on his only last night, he felt there was more than an equal chance he could persuade her to confine her interests to their immediate vicinity, for the stretch of their honeymoon at least.

"We'll take care of one another, Ma," he vowed, more throatily than he had reckoned on, "just like you and Dad have always done."

This was enough to precipitate more than a few tears on all sides, and Gilbert felt the reassuring squeeze of a large Blythe hand on his shoulder, and then was sandwiched between his parents for several precious moments, casting him back through the years to numerous other farewells to this house, and then to that very first one, before a long and uncertain journey all the way to Alberta.

A shuffle of footsteps heralded Fred appearing in the doorway, characteristically awkward in his best suit and starched collar, though quietly bemused by the scene before him.

"Ah, there we are, now," John announced, all business again. "Come in, Fred. We'll be ready in a moment."

John led his own long-ago bride back upstairs to attend to her tearstains and her equilibrium, leaving Gilbert to accept Fred's hearty handshake and shrug off his soft, teasing chuckle.

"My parents virtually chased me off the property day of my wedding," Fred smirked. "My own Ma had turned my room into her sewing room before we'd even gotten to Lone Willow that evening."

Gilbert laughed low, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. "Somehow I don't think that will be _quite_ the circumstance here. I don't think Ma will even touch my room for perhaps a decade or so."

Fred came into the dining room, looking thoughtfully about. "It'll be strange _me_ not coming here so often, either."

"It'll be strange not automatically expecting you," Gilbert acknowledged, a mite wistfully.

"Nothing like welcoming people to your own place, though."

"True…" Gilbert cheered at the thought. "I hope you, Di and the kids will allow us plenty of opportunities."

"Sure hope so," Fred grinned back. "So… do you need to take a moment? I've got the buggy ready. It'll save your folks taking theirs."

"Thanks, Fred. For everything." Gilbert clasped his shoulder in an unconscious echo of his father.

"And no use asking me if I've remembered the rings. Diana all but made me turn out my pockets earlier."

Gilbert smirked to himself. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"So…" Fred eyed the sprigs on the table. "Is that meant to resemble home? You being the apple of their eye, and Anne of yours?"

"You know, it could be!" Gilbert's eyes lit, offering a sprig to Fred and then taking up his own apple blossom and pinning it in place. "Miss Stacey would have been impressed with that insight. Who says you never listened in class?"

"More like I've been hanging around _you_ for too long." Fred countered fondly, consulting his pocket watch. "I guess, speaking of hanging around…"

"I hear you!" Gilbert left him to lunge back up the stairs, for the last time as a single man, checking over the room and himself before coming back down to meet Fred and then to see his parents re-emerge.

"You look lovely, Ma…" he embraced her tenderly. "Just as well Dad already snapped you up years ago!"

Ella gave her son a bright smile she tried very hard to hold on to. "Oh, darling… you're so very handsome today…" she touched the curls over his forehead with a sad reverence, reaching then to kiss his cheek.

"He gets that from me," John deadpanned, smirking, catching Fred's eye.

"And we are so very, very proud of you, Gilbert darling…"

"Thank you, Ma…"

John could see the way this was going to go without some intervention. "Ella, love…"

"Would you like me to put that basket in the buggy, Mrs Blythe?" Fred offered helpfully, to a grateful look from both males.

"Oh, thank you, Fred," Ella rallied. "Mind the savouries up the very top."

Gilbert passed his father the apple blossom with a knowing smile, and took the last for Davy.

"Perhaps we should all be heading off then?" John reached for some joviality, in tone if nothing else. He gave an encouraging look to his son, who began accompanying his mother, she unwilling or even unable to let go, in an awkward shuffling two-step towards the door.

"Have we got everything?" his mother asked, almost reflexively.

Gilbert looked back, drinking in the scene for the last time, ticking off his own mental list, crossing off items one by one… his trunk and doctor's bag already with the long-suffering Fletchers, to be checked in on their way to meet Mary Maria… the farewell note to his parents, now awaiting them on his old desk… his pocketbook, the tickets, his speech, his watch… and now, also, the lump in his throat, wedged there firmly, where he feared it would remain the entire day.

"We've got the groom," John Blythe answered huskily, grasping his son about the shoulders, as his son supported his mother. "That's all we need."

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

It was warm and slightly airless in the little east gable room as Dora's deft hands concocted a coif that was as romantic and dreamy as ever a bride of the day might wear; part _Gibson Girl_ after the new fashion Minnie May mooned over and wholly, utterly Anne. From a swept-up centred bun of the one twisted braid, soft auburn tendrils escaped to frame Anne's face, with those curls at her brow in conversation with her shining grey eyes. Those eyes followed Dora's handiwork as if watching a magician conjuring a trick… a sleight of hand in every sense… and misted over once their work was done.

"Oh, Dora, darling… thank you! Really, love… _thank you."_

"It's my pleasure, Anne," Dora's smile was a thing of magnificent beauty, informed as it was by her innate sweetness and modesty. The blonde girl was fulfilling all her early promise in this regard, and the blush hue to her dress complimented her flawless complexion in a way that Anne couldn't even be envious over. Anne thought momentarily to mention the issue of her brother's machinations regarding Ralph Andrews – who was growing into a nice, steady boy with Jane's dry wit and their older sister Prissy's fine looks – but thought better of it, fond as she was, now, of the idea of any local lad nursing a crush on a girl of Green Gables.

At any rate, Diana appeared in the doorway, all rosy cheeks and breathless news.

"Oh, Anne, love – how beautiful your hair looks! Well done, Dora! Well, Fred and Gilbert are here – no Anne get immediately away from that window! – and so is your Reverend Jo and his Phil – such a merry couple! I wish they could stay longer. The Harrisons were just arriving as I came back up. The Irvings can't be far behind. Marilla changed already and is back downstairs talking to the Blythes, and Rachel and Davy are just changing now. Pretty soon, Anne, we'll have to chase everyone out of the house so you can get ready for your procession."

Diana took another breath, directing Dora back downstairs to beg of her to do something with her children lest they climb all over the Best Man before anyone got a proper look at him, and then turned her attention to her friend, who was standing white and stricken in the middle of the room.

"Here, darling, let's get your dress on," Diana urged with a reassuring smile.

 _"Oh,_ Diana _\- I'm_ suddenly _so nervous…_ Di, _I know I'm going to faint."_ **

Diana Wright smiled the benevolent smile of history repeating, reaching to warm cold hands in hers.

"Then I will tell you, Miss Anne, what you once told me. _Getting married can't be so very terrible when so many people survive the ceremony."_ **

Anne looked like she wanted to dispute Diana's recollection, if her tongue weren't glued to the roof of her mouth.

"You'll feel better with your gown on, Anne. It feels _real,_ then. It's rather difficult to imagine yourself a radiant bride in your shoes and stockings and drawers and chemise, now." Diana reached for the little box she had left in the room earlier. "Here, darling, from me, with all my love. Something borrowed – and a little bit blue - and I embroidered the horseshoe myself, for luck."

The box revealed a lovely lacy blue garter, with a golden horseshoe now adorning the front. A quick kiss and Diana helped it over slim calf and thigh, and after assisting with her corset then carried across the dress of dreams, Anne stepping into the skirt with an overly careful air that calmed, as Diana predicted, once the entire gown was properly fastened and the look of it transformed Anne from tremulous to triumphant.

"Oh, darling!" Diana beamed.

Anne stared at her own reflection, awestruck not so much by the vision of herself as what she represented. She was a _bride…_ a bride in ivory silk that cascaded to the ground, her fingers feeling the sensuousness of the material as she smoothed it self-consciously. At her bodice was an anchoring panel of lace that followed the curve of collarbone with a scalloped design, dipping like the waves off Four Winds Point, and leading the eye across the gentle swell of breast to arms sheathed in the sheerest lace, beginning with the hint of fuller sleeves at the shoulder and drifting and tapering towards delicate wrist. Her skirts fanned in back into her train, able to kiss her long veil as she walked. The tiny row of buttons along her spine made tiny stepping stones from waist to high collar. Her pale skin seemed warmed by the hue of the gown, and her grey eyes sparkled with the green in their depths. Wordlessly, Diana fastened the pearls about Anne's throat in remembrance of Matthew, with the matching little pearl earrings Anne had worn so often to complement her ring they were old, familiar friends. Finally, with a look of awed affection, Diana took the misty veil of softest tulle, attached to the new pearl comb which she fixed in place, completing the covenant between them begun when Anne had arranged her own veil some four years before. ***

A spritz of lily of the valley and Anne was glowing expectantly, with the noonday sun haloing her in ethereal light.

"You're ready, Anne," Diana breathed, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement herself, and, not for the first time, also the stirring pains of inevitable parting, which she had stalwartly kept at bay.

"Not quite," Anne gave a thoughtful smile, walking across to her otherwise empty dresser and extracting a folded square of blue linen. With her back to Diana she looked it over before stroking it carefully and turning back to her friend.

"You can't plan on crying yet, love!" Diana looked horrified.

"Just being prepared," Anne gave a cheeky smile that was rather Blythe-worthy and tucked the square in carefully at her left cuff, so that only a pretty border of forget-me-nots poked out.

"Kiss me then, Anne Shirley," Diana held fast to her fading composure, even as she embraced her friend.

"Darling Diana… thank you."

They shared the soft, loving smiles of a thousand moments of friendship, before Diana departed, blowing a kiss at the door.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

Gilbert, unfairly tall and unreasonably dashing in his black suit and whimsical sprig of apple blossom, greeted the guests to his wedding with his trademark easy enthusiasm and a captivating charm employed to full effect. His joy in the arrival of this day and in these longed-for circumstances was disarming and contagious. It was enough to make more than one local matron rather belatedly lament their little community would lose one of its own sons to this far-flung Glen St Mary, and a promising, bright-eyed, new young doctor at that.

From the proud old house the walk down to the unorthodox ceremony in the Cuthbert orchard, of all places, was certainly made more appealing by the friendly noonday sun, the surprisingly clear path, and the sight of tall, handsome young Paul Irving directing to either ' _teacher'_ or _'doctor',_ regarding the seating. This in itself was slightly confusing given both bride and groom had taught school and both were equally well known to all, and caused Mrs Harmon Andrews, mother of Anne's good friend Jane but friends herself with Ella Blythe, some momentary consternation regarding for whom she should declare her allegiance.

Paul's welcoming party also consisted of his stepmother, Mrs Lavender, and her ever-faithful Charlotta, both buzzing about as excited as honeybees serenading the guests as if they were flowers. Their presence conjured memories of that other wedding out at the Stone House, for which today's bride-to-be had worked with such tireless energy, the romance of which had fed her own dreams in myriad ways. If he had time to pause at all Gilbert might have remembered his words to Anne that da _y…_ but he forever remembered her look to him… _for the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert's gaze and a rosy flush stained the paleness of her face… in his (later) silence he read the history of the next four years in the light of Anne's remembered blush. Four years of earnest, happy work. . . and then the guerdon of a useful knowledge gained and a sweet heart won._ ****

Up at Green Gables Gilbert nervously adjusted his cuffs as he ventured, with characteristic firm tread, up the verandah steps and back into the hush of the expectant house. It had indeed taken all of those four years and more besides to reach this moment, but as he watched Diana descend the stairs with a glowing look caught and held by her husband, he couldn't have wished for a second of their history to have been any different.

"She's ready," Diana announced simply.

The Blythes, in murmured conversation with those remaining, immediately looked to their son.

"We'll walk down now," John nodded, smiling gamely at all assembled and then enveloping Gilbert in a hug that threatened the composure of all who witnessed it.

Ella would evidently not to be outdone, gifting Gilbert the loveliest smile and patting his beloved curls one last time for good measure.

"Be happy, darling."

Their departure for the orchard signalled the cue for all others, with Fred clapping Gilbert on the back before sweeping his daughter up, offering his arm ceremoniously to Diana, who giggled at his gallantry. She paused first to take her son's hand and then to peck the groom on the cheek, whispering her wish for _love, luck and laughter_ in his ear, making him grin delightedly before he watched them too head off with that lump in his throat swelling anew.

And that just left… the denizens of Green Gables. Gilbert was caught in another embrace, this time from Rachel, who was too overcome, it seemed, for words, a circumstance hardly encountered before or to be repeated after, and then Dora, beautiful as a fresh-bloomed rose herself, with a whisper of a kiss, she declared, _for her new brother._

Gilbert hardly dared to look at Marilla and Davy, the two individuals in all the world who would miss Anne the most; he was torn by the thought he was robbing them, in some way, of additional years with her, as if she was their precious treasure he was poised to plunder and carry off.

Marilla must have sensed his difficulty; for that muzzled smile broke through, and she took her hands in his, squeezing tightly.

"Your mother said it best, Gilbert," she offered generously. "Be happy. Both of you."

"Good luck, Gilbert," Davy shook his hand, man-to-man and only a few years off eye-to-eye besides.

"Thank you, both," Gilbert choked out. "You're not… you're not staying to see her come down?"

Marilla shook her head resolutely, eyes shining. "She comes down those stairs for you, Gilbert, and you should be the one to meet her."

Soon enough he was trying not to pace the floorboards below, wondering if he should, ridiculously, hail Anne with a bellowing call to make younger Davy proud, when on his periphery he saw a flash of fabric, and there she was.

 _It was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old, homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon-the first bride of Green Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with her arms full of_ her favourite pink _roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below, looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive, long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting._ _It was to him she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride._

"Anne…" he breathed, comprehensively awestruck and not willing to recover quickly. All the versions of her that crowded his head – the hurt, defiant newcomer smashing that slate; the imperious ignorer of a thousand contrite entreaties; the half-drowned lily maid; the schoolmarm chum; the brilliant Redmond belle; the loving, ever-faithful fiancée – all faded in view of the radiance of the woman he was to wed. _Was he worthy of her? Could he make her as happy as he hoped? If he failed her-if he could not measure up to her standard of manhood…_

Gilbert gulped painfully, chest tight against the thought. He had vowed to Anne herself and all who would listen… he had _promised_ Marilla… _then, as she held out her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad certainty._

"Gil…" Anne answered, drawing him away from the shadows and back to her light. She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Anne… he attempted again, hoarsely. "You have never been more beautiful."

Her smile was golden and her eyes silver, and her marvellous gown and veil draped her in pearled luminescence.

"Shall we, my love?" he invited, kissing her hand.

Arm tucked in his, Gilbert escorted Anne out the green door and down the path to where their future awaited. _They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each other's keeping and both were unafraid._

* * *

 _These two—they dwelt with eye on eye,  
Their hearts of old have beat in tune… _*****

Anne and Gilbert _were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan,_ pleased as punch, _married them,_ his wife dabbing daintily at the corner of one eye for the young _enchanting_ girl she had first encountered all those years ago. Philippa Blake had started crying the moment her beloved friends came into view _arm in arm_ , their smiling happiness almost too much for her to bear, and took her younger boy on her lap, reduced to snivelling into his collar to stopper her tears. Reverend Jonas Blake, in position beside his colleague, smiled fondly at the friends God had so favoured in finding one another, only equalled, in his opinion, by his own domestic felicity, as much a miracle to him now as that first conversation with a lovely young lady by the sea. Emily Harrison had pinned one of her bright yellow dahlias to her hat in honour of the bride, and was seen to pat the hand of her husband in an astonishing act of reassurance, whilst he was caught loudly and repeatedly clearing his throat, as if the years of unexpected friendship with the bright, sparky bride were stuck there and he might not swallow down any joy again. Paul Irving sat, smiling broadly and handsomely at the scene and oblivious to the admiring looks of assorted young ladies in general and one Minnie May Barry in particular, Mrs Barry noting the same and quite relieved to wave the Irvings back off to Boston or Europe or even just off the Island on the morrow. Meanwhile Mrs Lavender and Charlotta sat and remembered their own respective weddings; Jane Andrews remembered the brief, misbegotten moment Anne might have become her sister; Dr Spencer remembered toiling through the night to have Gilbert's near-fatal fever break with the new day; several Gillises remembered the bolstering visits the bride had made to their dear, departed Ruby; Fred, standing by the groom, later only remembered the unbridled joy on his best friend's face as he looked upon Anne; and Diana, sobbing silently and extravagantly, a dam finally burst, had no thought but to clutch either child tightly and wish the both of them the gift of such a bosom friend.

Of family, it was a more difficult and delicate matter. John Blythe was staunch and stoic, and a gentle comfort to his unashamedly teary wife. The Fletchers blinked frequently even as eleventh-hour arrival Aunt Mary Maria sat dry-eyed, her features set in an expression even the most generous soul would term mildly disapproving. Dora Keith felt her serene heart quietly thrilling to the romance of the day, but as she sat so poised and polished she fooled everyone. Beside her, Davy Keith wore a scowl of thunder to ward off even the hint of unmanly tears and fooled no one. _The Reverend Jo,_ he of ordinary features and truly mesmerising voice, stepped forward to ruminate upon several lines from 1 John 4 _;_ beginning with _Beloved, let us love one another because love is of God;_ ending with _There is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear, #_ and supplementing the middle with his own words outlining ideas of trust and truth pertaining to both husband, wife and God and thus _making what Mrs. Rachel Lynde afterwards pronounced to be the "most beautiful wedding prayer" she had ever heard,_ and during which she happily sniffed into her hankerchief throughout _._

Marilla Cuthbert sat, amongst the trees and the sun and the tangible love felt as on the air, and remembered that _glow of delight_ on Matthew's _shy face_ ##when it was decided Anne would stay, and her own first _throb of_ _maternity_ ### that threatened now to spill from blue eyes and folded lips and pained heart that had forever beat differently since it had first taken _that thin little hand in her own._ ### Now that hand was held by Gilbert Blythe and would forever be so; she felt his father glance at her at the sight of a blue square tucked into Anne's sleeve, and her smile to him was only equal to that he offered her, above his wife's bent head, as memories ducked and danced around them on the gentle breeze.

 _Birds do not often sing in September, but one sang sweetly from some hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their deathless vows. Anne heard it and thrilled to it,_ marking her Tennyson even under such distractions; _Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks…_ ***** And then filled with sudden, indescribable joy to think – and firmly believe forevermore – _this_ was the sign she had begged of Matthew, to let her know he was with them. _Gilbert heard it, and wondered only that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song,_ and felt dangerously close to such an undertaking himself; _Paul heard it and later wrote a_ charming _lyric about it which was one of the most admired in his first volume of verse; Charlotta the Fourth heard it and was blissfully sure it meant good luck for her adored Miss Shirley. The bird sang_ on, magical and marvellous, _until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with one mad little, glad little trill._

And then Anne was Shirley no more, but Blythe in name as well as spirit. When Gilbert was invited to kiss her to seal their promises, the rapturous whistles and applause rang joyfully in their ears and sounded in the hearts of all fortunate enough to bear witness.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*All italics from _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 4) unless otherwise noted

** _Anne of the Island_ (Ch 29)

***Two things had me tearing my hair out these last few weeks; Anne's wedding dress and Jo Blake's Best Wedding Prayer Ever. I feel I have cheated on the latter and still haven't done justice to the former, despite the lovely _tinalouise88's_ patience, humour and next-level expertise in this area, which I acknowledge gratefully x

**** _Anne of Avonlea_ (Ch 30)

*****Tennyson, from _In Memoriam A.H.H._

#from the New Testament Book of John (KJV), referencing _1 John_ 4:7-12 and 16-19

## _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 6)

### _Anne of Green Gables_ (Ch 10)


	17. Chapter 17 Celebrating Part One

**Author's Note**

You may be forgiven for thinking I had disappeared, with Anne and Gilbert, off to that distant, happy post-wedding horizon and just forgot to tell you... well, sorry, not quite!

Instead I have been twiddling and tweaking and writing several things at once, barely finishing anything... except an Anne with an E one-shot, just to keep things interesting!

Thank you all, as ever, for your kindness and patience, for this and my other stories. Every comment, follow and favourite - particularly on some stories that haven't been updated for an age - shows an incredible faith, which I want to repay as best as possible! I hope this at least is a start. We're getting there!

Thanks and love

Mrs VT x

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

 _ **Celebrating**_

 _ **Part One**_

* * *

The happy couple - _happy_ here such an inadequate word – accepted everyone's congratulations and good wishes as they made their way through the throng and eventually up the slope. Dora, poised to hold Anne's wayward train as necessary, found them so engulfed by guests she soon gave up this idea entirely, and settled for a quick kiss to bride and groom and hung back to survey the joyful scene and wiggle her already-tired toes in Minnie May's shoes. A nudge about her ribcage signalled her brother, a grin finally escaping him, having ducked and weaved as if caught in a football scrum, freed, it seemed, from his jangle of emotions now that the deed was done.

"I'm famished!" he announced. "Will we give them the signal to head back up?" he held out his arm to his sister.

"But shouldn't you accompany Marilla, as you came down?" Dora worried, still one for the rightness of things, even for a wedding taking place in an apple orchard.

"I don't fancy even trying to find her!" Davy glanced back, hardly able to distinguish the bride, let alone their guardian. Beyond the hubbub he saw Ralph Andrews give a quietly longing glance in their direction, and he gave his friend a wink, and then mentioned about the dancing later in his sister's ear, and as one of the eligible young ladies there today she should be prepared for all comers.

Dora's beautiful face was caught with color.

"I don't think I'll do _any_ dancing in these shoes…" she lamented, with a delicate frown.

 _We'll see about that…_ Davy smiled to himself.

* * *

Anne was caught in a flurry of kisses and embraces and well wishes, feeling the happy tears spark her eyes and the smile splitting her cheeks. Turned away from Gilbert to accept the congratulations of a contingent of the New Brunswick cousins, she noted the stately personage with the air of an undertaker and the look of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

"Hello, Aunt Mary Maria!" Anne greeted gamely. "Forgive my informality! I feel I know you already. Thank you for making the journey for us today!"

Anne shook hands with the elegant lady, face framed by sleek, grey crimped hair, whose fearsome reputation must surely have been exaggerated.

"Yes, congratulations are in order, I'm sure, Annie. _"_ Though I find _it's so strange Gilbert picked you. He could have had so many nice girls."_ *

Anne swallowed down her surprise and disappointment, and made an immediate, fearsome vow.

 _That woman is never setting foot in my house!_ she declared to herself, with considerable vim and vigour, turning away from her with a cold, polite smile and back to her new husband, whom she was sure would have offered more than a mild protest at the older woman's misgivings.

* * *

"Come, my darling," a jubilant Gilbert whispered in her ear, arm about Anne's waist. "We may have to lead them all up, Pied Piper-style!"

Anne's shining look to him was all the agreement needed, and as they crested the slope he turned her, not towards the merry-looking marquee, but back to the house.

"Gilbert? Anne questioned, brow furrowing delicately.

"A surprise, _Mrs Blythe,"_ he fairly burst with pride to say the title to her at last.

Inside the parlour a photographer awaited them, equipment and professional air at the ready.

"Greetings and congratulations, Doctor and Mrs Blythe," he began pleasantly. "Should we make use of our time by taking your own portraits now, before the family arrives?"

Anne was wonderingly agog. "Gilbert…" she murmured to him. "I thought that we couldn't afford…"

"I was _never_ not going to mark this day in every way possible, sweetheart," he answered fervently, eyes flashing with feeling.

Over the last eighteen months of his medical studies, Gilbert had scrimped every dollar he could, crowding his already impossible hours with the tutoring of as many floundering first years as he could manage. The Cooper had been a Godsend, not only in monetary value but in prestige, and there had been a long line of eager students desperate for some of the polish of the intelligent, driven, personable princeling of Redmond to rub off on them by association. Those additional hours upon hours had helped furnish their house, had allowed the hiring of two former students from White Sands to play fiddle at the reception, and had allowed the engagement of a photographer all the way from Charlottetown.

The strains of those village virtuosos could be heard even now, welcoming one and all.

"Oh, _Gil…"_ Anne's smile broke like a sunrise upon her beloved face. "You are _wonderful!_ "

As the photographer positioned them, Gilbert had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent an undignified grin from escaping and marring the capturing of their solemn pose. Before his father, on strict and secretive orders, was to usher the other family members – including Marilla, the twins and Rachel Lynde – into the house for a group portrait, Gilbert took his chance to ask the photographer for a more intimate reflection of their wedded bliss.

" _Gilbert Blythe!"_ Anne laughed as he drew her to him, arms clasped around her, readying them for a kiss. "We can hardly put _this_ one on the mantle!"

"It will be for _our_ eyes only, Anne-girl," he assented, roguish eyes and adored dimple playing havoc with his attempt at a straight face. He then lowered his lips to his wife's, more than happy to hold their stance for however long the photographer required.

* * *

 _O true and tried, so well and long,_

 _Demand not thou a marriage lay,_

 _In that it is thy marriage day_

 _Is music more than any song…_

 _It circles round, and fancy plays,_

 _And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,_

 _As drinking health to bride and groom_

 _We wish them store of happy days._ **

 _Never had the old grey-green house among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon._ *** Beneath the marquee, Anne and Gilbert circled amongst their guests, hands clasped and eyes adoring whenever their gazes found one another. It was a cold heart able to withstand the onslaught of their mutual happiness, and more than one guest was found to be dabbing a hankerchief at odd, inexplicable moments.

The reception had been generously and lovingly provisioned for, and Marilla sat taller at the ready compliments for the making and baking that had gone into the celebration, washed down with copious cider and goodwill. She looked and felt serenely grateful and gratified to have arrived at this day, with her lavender ensemble offset by her beloved amethyst brooch – so nearly the cause of young Anne's premature departure from Green Gables all those years ago. Beside her sat Davy and Dora, and round the table to Rachel, the Blythes and Anne and Gilbert themselves, not wanting a separate table when there was barely a wedding party, but instead positioning themselves within and surrounded by their guests… at the literal heart of the festivities.

And what festivities there were… _All the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since Eden were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as if they had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy had their way;_ *** not least from the table housing Diana, Phil Blake, and their respective husbands and progeny; neighbouring guests were hard-pressed to know whether the frequent irrepressible giggling to be heard was from the children or their mothers.

 _Again the feast, the speech, the glee,  
The shade of passing thought, the wealth  
Of words and wit, the double health,  
The crowning cup, the three-times-three… _**

A clanging of glasses heralded Fred standing with purpose and striding to where Mrs Harrison's magnificent rose-festooned cake awaited. His appearance was all Diana might have hoped for; surprisingly dapper and only a little flushed by the heat and his purpose now in drawing all eyes to him. He unfurled three neat pages, copied from a series of drafts that had been agonised over more than anybody knew, and if not betraying himself today as a rollicking wit he hoped he might make up the difference in a heartfelt sincerity.

" _Ladies and gentlemen_ ," he began, clearing his throat against its constriction. _"It is my honour and my great pleasure to welcome you all, on behalf of the families of Anne and Gilbert, to help celebrate their marriage today. I am conscious of the fact I speak first here only in the sad absence of Mr Matthew Cuthbert, whose pride in the bride would, I'm sure, be equal only to his shyness in voicing it."_

There were several affectionate titters at this, and a tremulous smile from an already misty-eyed Anne, who privately doubted her new father-in-law's gifted blue hankerchief would survive Fred's speech, let alone her husband's.

" _Four years ago, Gilbert stood in similar position to where I stand now, entertaining all with his recounting of some of our youthful exploits. I dare say I have one or two stories you haven't heard, enough to add a few new curls to that mane of the groom's, but I will save them for another time. At any rate so many of you know of these stories already. For we have all grown up and grown together here in this community of friends and family. Although we celebrate today, it is a bittersweet celebration, for we are also farewelling Anne and Gil, for their own story together is only just beginning."_

Fred shuffled his pages, daring a quick glance at Anne and Gilbert, who both looked up to him rapturously, clutching hands tightly, and then on to his wife, face shining in encouragement, clutching their daughter on her lap. He daren't even look at the Blythes or Marilla Cuthbert. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously, as the assembled guests looked to him expectantly.

" _My wife and myself are farewelling our best friends, today, but we do so knowing that Anne and Gilbert have found their best support in each other. They will tackle life together how they have tackled everything that has come their way – with passion and dedication, with love and loyalty, and with humour and humility. And probably a fair amount of discussion…"_ he allowed a wry smile to escape. _"They will do so knowing our best wishes are carried with them, for a long and happy life together, full of joys and blessings as they themselves will bless the greater community of Glen St Mary which will be their lucky new home."_

Anne felt the tears wet on her cheeks at this, and turned to Gilbert, only to see his own eyes moist and composure wavering.

" _Anne and Gil, you make a handsome couple, as if anyone ever had a doubt. It brings Diana and I - and everyone here, most especially Miss Cuthbert and all at Green Gables, and Mr and Mrs Blythe - great happiness to see you married and to share in this day, and to know the many joys that await you. Thank you, Anne, for making my friend so very happy and for finally taking him off our hands. Thank you, Gil, for being a rare and true friend who has always led the way and is doing so still._

 _If I can ask everyone to be upstanding for a toast…"_ Fred looked around for the one item he had forgotten, only for Mr Harrison to send a full glass his way with a wink. _"To the bride and groom…"_

" _To the bride and groom…"_ everyone gladly echoed, and then loud applause carried Fred back to his seat, into which he collapsed gratefully, but not before earning a kiss from Anne and a hug from Gilbert on his way, and proud, delighted congratulatory tidings from his wife.

Gilbert now gave his own wife a gentle kiss and a sheepish smile, taking his cue and the place Fred had vacated. He stood tall and confident in the way of his father, his hazel gaze sweeping over those assembled and taking a full breath made difficult by his swelling heart. He, too, unfurled several pages, though he would scarcely look at them, and his commanding manner confirmed the Redmond scholar and all-conquering medical graduate was very much in attendance, with heartening glimpses of the cheeky schoolboy, rounded off with a considerable dose of the lovestruck new husband.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, beloved family and friends… welcome to our special day, which for me only heralds a lifetime of special days to come. My wife and I…"_ here Gilbert paused for an unashamed grin and a few rousing cheers, _"thank you all for your presence here today, for your generous gifts and good wishes, and for the assistance of so many to help make this day possible, whether in providing the fabulous feast here before us, helping to erect the marquee and decorations above and around us, or organising the setting for our wonderful ceremony. We thank you one and all._

 _My friend and Best Man Fred Wright, who is indeed one of the very best men I know, just moments ago talked about stories… the stories we all share and the stories we are yet to write or tell. Indeed my darling wife is one of the most talented writers one could meet…"_ here Gilbert gave a fondly teasing look to Anne, evoking the memory of her very first published effort courtesy of Averil and a certain-to-remain-nameless baking powder. _"My own story,"_ he resumed, _"would be nothing without all of you seated here, because you all in unique and profound ways have influenced it for the better. There have been many turning points – many bends in the road, as Anne would say – that have led us here today, and I beg your indulgence whilst I thank the people responsible for them._

 _Firstly, to our relatives and friends both local and far-flung; thank you for making the journey to be with us today, and for years of your support of us during our engagement and in many cases, beforehand. Thank you in particular to my Aunt and Uncle Fletcher for the innumerable times you have been there to help and to rescue us in our various times of need…"_ Gilbert looked meaningfully at his uncle in particular, who allowed a short bark of laughter in recognition, neither daring to look at the woman who gave George Fletcher a most chastening glance at such ungentlemanly behaviour. Meanwhile John Blythe looked on mirthfully at this exchange, until belatedly remembering that his stay of execution regarding Aunt Mary Maria would only last as long as the reception did, and would have gladly given over a year's supply of cider if it could have stalled her residence in their downstairs guest room the coming evening.

" _Thank you to Reverend Allan for conducting our wonderful ceremony,"_ Gilbert continued, _"and to yourself and Mrs Allan for friendship and guidance for both of us over many years. And to speak of friends is to further speak of two people who have helped make the past three years' at all tolerable for me up in Kingsport; the Reverend Jonas Blake and Mrs Blake and their lovely family. Jo, Phil… thank you for your friendship with Anne and myself, and for being both a reminder of happy Redmond days and an inspiration for the days to come. Thank you, Jo, for your wisdom and your tremendous wedding prayer for us. Thank you, Phil, for always managing to see the rainbow after the rain, and for the writing of excellent letters."_

Philippa Blake gave a delighted flash of her winning, crooked smile at this, remembering full well what the groom was referring to, enjoying a glance of shared pleasure with the modest, loving man by her side in all things.

" _Thank you to Mr and Mrs Harrison for your assistance with preparations, and to Mrs Harrison for the magnificent cake to my left that we will all enjoy soon enough. Thank you also to Mrs Lavender Irving, Mr Paul Irving and the irrepressible Charlotta, for making the site of our ceremony so magical. Speaking of magic… or perhaps miracles… the man, now esteemed colleague, who helped harness one for me a little over three years ago is here and known to us all. Thank you, Dr Spencer, for making it at all possible for me to be standing here today."_

Gilbert paused at this, flushing handsomely, seeing a sea of nodding heads at this reminder, including the pleased, proud visage of the gentleman in question, though thankfully not the tear that traced his mother's cheek in the moment.

" _To Mr and Mrs Wright… Fred and Diana… who have supported us since the schoolroom… I did indeed look upon you both four years ago, marvelling then, as now, as to your unwavering commitment to one another and to your wonderful children, and to those you embrace as your own. Anne and I have felt the warmth and reassurance of that embrace time and time again, in ways too numerous to detail. Know this… that we take your friendship with us, and cherish it and yourselves always."_

These sentiments were quite enough for Diana and Phil both to be going on with, collapsing in tears the way they had previously done in laughter. Fred's stoic countenance almost collapsed under the weight of his emotions, and he gulped at his cider with a singleminded determination.

It seemed the groom was faltering now, too, with all that he felt constraining his need to share it. He looked to Anne, awash in her own tears, dabbing her cheeks with a hankerchief he did not recognise, and wished desperately he wouldn't have to use his own.

" _And so, we come to our families._

 _Firstly, to my parents, John and Ella Blythe. Your unfailing love and support buoys me, your example of companionship and commitment inspires me, and your manifold sacrifices to assist me with my studies have humbled me. Thank you for being the very best parents a fellow could hope for. Ma – words cannot express my love and admiration for you. Dad - I can only attempt to follow your sterling example as man, husband and father in the coming years. Indeed, it would take me another twenty-eight of them to appreciate all I have learned from you both. Thank you for everything."_

Here Gilbert paused, swallowing with difficulty, hearing the sniffles he was encouraging near and far, and risking a fond look toward his parents, who had leaned into one another in a mirror of the embrace he had shared with them when they had left the farm that morning.

" _To Dora and Davy Keith, my new siblings…"_ Gilbert rallied, smiling broadly. _"As an only child I am delighted to have become your big brother. Thank you for accepting me into your lives, and for your support here today and in the years of our engagement. You will always be welcome in our new home and we hope to see you often, accompanied we hope by the esteemed ladies who are your guardians. We also thank Mrs Rachel Lynde, who has always been so generous in her help to Anne and myself, and we know this day would be all the poorer without her energy, enthusiasm and proficiency in the kitchen."_

The smiles of the twins were nothing, here, to the delighted response from Rachel Lynde in hearing these treasured words, and she clucked and puffed up her feathers as if preparing to strut around the marquee in victory. With the Reverend Jonas Blake's wedding prayer and now Gilbert's glad tidings, this was shaping up to be one of the best weddings she had ever attended, including that showy Andrews spectacle a few years' back and even perhaps giving some of her own children's a run for their money, that's what.

Gilbert now turned his attention fairly and squarely upon the angular lady in the pretty lavender ensemble, whose blue eyes followed his keenly, searching his face, as she always had done, for perhaps some secret only he had the answer to.

" _To Miss Cuthbert…"_ he paused deliberately _, "and from today, Marilla…"_ he shared a secret smile of understanding with her. _"To say I owe both yourself and the much missed Mr Matthew Cuthbert the happiness I feel today is the worst possible understatement. You opened your home and your hearts to the girl who was always my love and is today, wonderfully, my wife. I cannot fathom how both our lives – Anne's and my own – would have been so very different but for your love, kindness and generosity, then, now and all the years in between. Please know that our new home will always be yours, too. Thank you for all you have done to support Anne and myself and to help make our day of days possible. All I can do today in return is voice my gratitude from the bottom of my heart, as a proud son-in-law, and honour my promise earlier, made before God and everyone here, to love and cherish Anne all the days of my life."_

Here many of the guests were openly tearful, now, and if they were not before they were at the sight of John Blythe, passing a new hankerchief (from a seemingly endless supply) over to Marilla Cuthbert, whom a few there would remember had once, long long ago, been more than mere neighbour, and to witness Marilla take that hankerchief to both eyes for an exceedingly long time.

Gilbert turned his own loving eyes to Anne, who met his soft gaze with a tremulous smile, gripping her own damp blue cloth tightly.

" _Anne…"_ Gilbert croaked, praying for steadiness for the last, most important part of all. " _Anne Blythe…"_ he repeated, heart ready to burst out of his chest. _"There are few moments in life where you see two paths before you. Every day I have not been with you these three years has reminded me of what other path may have been mine; of how my life may have been without you. From the very first you have been a rainbow amongst grey clouds to all who have known and loved you. You color my days with the light of your laughter and love; you banish any shadows with your radiant spirit. I only hope I prove myself worthy of being yours. I cannot believe that we can finally begin our lives together now; I am so used to planning and hoping and dreaming with you, of fixing our faith upon some distant point on the horizon, and can scarcely comprehend that all our waiting is over; that the future is here, and is ours."_

Gilbert swallowed, breathed, steadied; he had waited, indeed, half his lifetime for this moment already; he would not stumble now.

" _O Dryad, I had best give you Keats here, too. Anne, my darling, you are my "dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, and hopes, and joys."_ **** _Let me be thus to you, always. I love you, and I vow to demonstrate that every day of our lives together. Please join me, dear friends and loved ones, in toasting my beautiful bride. To Anne."_

Gilbert, eyes swimming, clutched almost blindly for his glass, leading the toast before leading his bride out to the centre of the marquee for their first dance.

* * *

Anne Blythe smiled up at her new husband, their eyes only for one another as they waltzed, oblivious to the tender looks of their audience.

"Darling husband," Anne ventured lovingly.

"Darling wife," Gilbert grinned down at her, gripping her ever more tightly.

"Gil, your lovely words just now…"

"I meant every syllable of them, Anne-girl."

"Oh, Gil. Thank you. For myself… for Marilla and Matthew… I can't believe the happiness I feel at this moment."

"You _are_ happy then, sweetheart?"

" _Incandescently_ so. You've given me the wedding of my dreams, Gil. I thought I wanted to come to you, barefoot, and say our vows under a bower in the birch woods at sunrise…"

" _Barefoot?"_ Gilbert's eyes twinkled and he supressed a smirk. " _Birch woods?"_

"But that's _not_ what I wanted after all. I wanted _this._ Joy. Friends. Family. Food. Music. _You."_

"Well, you definitely have _me,"_ he chuckled winningly. "No getting out of _that_ one now, Mrs Blythe.I love you, Anne."

"I love you, Gilbert." Anne looked thoughtful, before continuing. "And poetry. I forgot about poetry. You even gave me Keats."

"Well, love, not the _entire_ poem…"

"No _indeed…"_ Anne blushed beautifully. "That would have been rather audacious."

"There's always tonight… I look forward to reciting _much_ more of Keats… later."

Anne caught her husband's leading look and his unmistakable meaning.

" _Tonight,"_ she echoed, before the fiddlers heralded a new dance and an invitation for their guests to join them.

* * *

Mrs Jane Inglis had become expert at weaving through a crowd, warmly acknowledging all without drawing undue focus to herself. Her dress today was the height of elegance and sophistication, even if her mother that morning had lamented it was rather subdued for the occasion, and not exactly befitting her daughter's new wealth and station. Jane herself had protested this was Anne's day, and she wasn't about to revisit her wedding diamonds when the bride – and the groom for that matter – glowed fit to outshine any jewel.

Jane smiled in the direction of the deliriously happy couple now, delighting in their mutual joy even as she sighed for her own husband, back in Winnipeg and unable to leave his manifold business interests. The time had been valuable, though, in reconnecting with friends and family, visiting with Diana and Anne, and spending time with Billy, Nettie and the children and her fast-growing, strapping younger brother. It was for Ralph, now, caught up in a conversation with Davy Keith, the latter's forearm slung over his friend's shoulders, that she now found herself deputised for, and not for the first time did she shake her head to think that she was standing proxy for one of her brothers where a young lady was concerned.

Ralph was shaking his own head at Davy, much to the handsome blonde boy's evident displeasure, as all the time Ralph's eyes followed his sister's passage on the other side of the marquee, as she made her way to where Minnie May and Dora sat watching the older dancing couples. Anne now was caught in John Blythe's firm grasp, whilst Gilbert partnered with Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs Blythe with George Fletcher.

"Hello, girls," Jane smiled down at the pair, before taking a careful seat next to Dora. Minnie May was rather pretty but Dora had grown quite beautiful, and it was no wonder she had caught Ralph's interest.

"They really should put a time limit on weddings," Minnie May pouted. "Diana's went on _forever_ and I hardly think _this_ lot will let up before dark!"

"Anne and Gilbert need to catch the afternoon train, Minnie May," Jane explained patiently. "So they won't tarry. Let them have their day. Goodness knows _you'll_ want to when your time comes."

At this the elder girl rolled her eyes, declaring she'd get to Redmond first or die trying, and wasn't about to fall for any local farmer like her sister had. Meanwhile Dora blushed becomingly, and Jane suspected she herself wouldn't mind a local beau, so long as he was kind and patient and prepared to help draw her out of her shell. It was this shyness that was the only thing saving her brother; in another year the bees would be swarming this gorgeous flower nearly in full bloom.

Thankfully Minnie May moved off, and Jane seized her one opportunity.

"Dora, I know we don't know each other very well, but I have a letter for you," Jane began, taking a folded note from her cuff and passing it under the table. "The note is genuine. From my brother, Ralph. It is very important you don't let Davy see it, though I leave it to you to decide whether or not you want to act on its contents."

She smiled at the puzzled girl, thinking what a sweet thing she was, and hoping their rather exacting plan wouldn't go to waste.

"I really hope we can see one another again, next time I'm in Avonlea. My very best wishes to you, Dora, and all at Green Gables."

Jane moved off as quietly as she had come, leaving Dora with the paper seized in her slim, trembling fingers.

* * *

"Well, and so we welcome a new Mrs Blythe," John Blythe greeted his new daughter-in-law, sweeping her into his arms with alacrity, grin nearly splitting his face.

" _Quite_ a thing to get used to," Anne smiled brightly. " _And_ to live up to."

"Ah, I think you'll manage it _,_ smart girl like you. But will you manage _him?_ " he indicated over a broad shoulder to his son, eyes twinkling.

"Do you have any tips for me, Mr Blythe? As one Blythe man regarding another?"

John laughed in that delighted way of his, as if sharing a private joke with she alone.

"You've held his notice, and his heart, for more'n a decade, love, so I think you have that well in hand. Only…" here John faltered, "only remind him he's only human, once in a while, Anne. He'll try to be hero, for you, and for all he comes across. He'll need reminding."

Anne wished she herself would have such insight regarding her own children, when the time came. "I will, Mr Blythe…" she gave suddenly tearful vow. "I'll look after him, I promise you. I promise you both."

"Well, it's John, as you well know, and Ella, and _you'll_ need to be remembering that, too," he frowned mock-sternly, trying to mask his own ready emotion.

"I forget-it-not," she ventured carefully, eyes still bright.

A mesmerising hint of color stole across his cheeks, and he almost stopped dancing where he stood, but for the enchanting bride in his arms.

"Well, now…" he paused, considering his words carefully. "I figure… well… we've all be down those _different paths_ Gilbert talked about just now. Even you yourself, Anne, before you came to us. Time and circumstances… and, well, to be honest, a fair amount of stubborn pride… might lead you in a different direction, but you don't forget the path you could have taken. Not ever. So I guess… well, that was behind my reasoning, with the hankerchief. I'm real glad you wanted to carry it. Maybe I'm just a sentimental old fool, at that."

Overwhelmed, Anne reached up and kissed him affectionately on his bristly cheek.

"Sentimental, yes, fool – never!" she grinned. "But I have to tell you, I haven't just carried it today, I've used it so much its sopping wet now. I promise to launder it for you carefully."

"Not a bit of it, Mrs Blythe. It's yours now, with my love."

"What's all this about love? And aren't you kissing the wrong Blythe, Anne?" Gilbert joked as he leaned across to them, still leading a bemused Marilla.

"Just pipe down now, junior, and swap your partner with me," John smirked, giving Anne back to her groom and holding out his arms for the woman he himself might have married.

* * *

Dora Keith found it no bother to slip away quietly under guise of freshening up, racing across to the house and up to her old room, aching feet quite forgotten.

The room across the hall would be hers, from tonight, and she dearly hoped some of the confidence of its long occupant would rub off on her; perhaps a little of Anne's magic would be found in the curtains or in the very walls of that sweet, gabled room.

With a quickening breath Dora unfurled the note and read avidly.

 _Dear Dora_

 _This is a message from Ralph Andrews. I'm sorry if the circumstances seem strange. I have asked my sister, Mrs Jane Inglis, to deliver it on my behalf, for reasons that will become clear if you keep reading, which I hope you do._

 _Firstly, you look beautiful today. I am writing this before I even leave the house for the wedding, because I know the truth of that as well as I know my own name. I don't need to see you to know it. And if I don't get the chance to say it in person, I hope you know I have felt it regardless._

 _I guess I had better get to the point. Basically, for a while now, your brother Davy and Milty Boulter have been teasing me regarding my admiration for you. I cannot say they are wrong, but you know those two, they have been at me for ages. I might have tried to talk to you more often in school if not for them, so if I have seemed a bit cold these last few months, well, that's why. And now I'm off to Queen's and you will be here in Avonlea, and I am running out of chances._

 _So when Davy came over to borrow some trousers the other day, Milty was already here, and I overheard them talking about a bet they had made about us – you and me – and whether I would ask you to dance at Anne and Gilbert's reception. Now, I ordinarily would have liked nothing more than to ask you to dance, but I clearly can't do that now. I don't think either of us would like to give them the satisfaction._

 _But it occurred to me that maybe we can get around their stupid game, by having YOU ask ME to dance instead. This, of course, is supposing you'd want to dance with me at all, and I respect your feelings either way. I didn't want people to talk or put you in an embarrassing situation, so my sister is asking if one of the dances this afternoon, after the speeches, might be Ladies Choice. That way, you could ask me, and no one would know any different. I think people would be so diverted they'd hardly even notice what was going on. All I can say, Dora, is that if you ask me, you know the answer will be yes._

 _I hope you enjoy the wedding. I know it's both a happy and a sad day for you. I know what it's like to have a sister marry and move away. Two of mine have done it. So I'll be thinking about you today, and when I go up to Queen's. Perhaps more often than I should._

 _Best Wishes_

 _Ralph_

Dora sat, amazed, for several minutes, propped up on her bed; a blush-hued maiden from her dress up to her flaming cheeks.

She of course had noticed the boys, of late; not in the arch way of Minnie May, but in the stolen glances she could feel them give her, whenever she tried a new hairstyle or was able to add an embellishment to one of her dresses without Marilla noticing, even if Mrs Rachel saw it with a gleam in her eye.

Of course she had noticed Ralph Andrews, not only as Davy's friend – and eminently preferable in looks and demeanour to Milty – but as someone with whom she might have shared a friendly word, without it descending into mad flirtation. But his silence had subdued her, till she had convinced herself it was simply indifference. But what if…? Well, she knew better now, and dratted Davy certainly should have. She'd seen his arm around Ralph just now, in earnest conversation which obviously had nothing to do with admiring the floral arrangements.

Dora read the note again, observing a fine, distinct hand, and imagined its owner sitting at his desk that morning, writing things he might never get to say, writing things as truth before he even knew them as fact. And then, that note folded and folded again, given to his sister, who had given it to her. She imagined that hand taking hers… she imagined it at her waist… she imagined it catching a tendril of hair and brushing it back into place…

Dora breathed heavily, fighting to steady herself. This was madness. She would no sooner be able to march across that marquee and demand Ralph dance with her than she would fly over the moon.

But… it was a shame, though, and her heart gave a little pang, making her steps down the staircase and out of the house and back to the festivities all the slower. It wasn't that Davy would win his bet… or, more likely, Milty would. It wasn't even that others were trying to dictate her actions, or at least second-guess them. It was that Ralph Andrews would go away to Queen's believing either one of two things; that she didn't care enough to dance with him, or that she hadn't had the courage to attempt to.

Where was Anne's audaciousness when she needed it?

Dora ventured back to the marquee as applause accompanied Anne and Gilbert cutting Mrs Harrison's rather fabulous cake.

And then one of the fiddlers announced a daring difference to the next set; it would be Ladies Choice.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

Argh, those speeches! I wanted to give both Fred and Gilbert their due, but boy I realised those guys wanted to talk! I hope that section wasn't interminable.

I have also slightly altered the traditional order of the wedding speeches and toasts. Usually it is the Father of the Bride, the Groom and then the Best Man, but in the absence of anyone acting in a fatherly capacity on Anne's side, Fred has taken over some of that mantle – and perhaps some of that tone. And then I had to have Gilbert have the last word! (so VERY many of them!) Fred toasts the Bride and Groom in a quasi-fatherly capacity, and in the absence of official bridesmaids Gilbert instead toasts Anne.

* _Anne of Ingleside_ (Ch 1)

**Tennyson, from _In Memoriam A.H.H._

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 4)

****John Keats _Ode to Fanny_ (Gilbert does indeed offer the G-rated lines of the poem here!)


	18. Chapter 18 Celebrating Part Two

**Author's Note:**

Heading to the Glen AT LAST!

I am so behind in responding to your responses! No blathering this week, just thank you!

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen**

 _ **Celebrating**_

 _ **Part Two**_

* * *

John Blythe's arms were secure and steady; just like his character. That did not account for the tender way he held her, nor the affectionate smile which caught her uncomfortably with its potency. Marilla Cuthbert had not danced in decades, and here she was, with three partners in as many minutes, it seemed; first Gilbert and now his father, and undoubtedly Davy would be waiting in the wings for his expected, embarrassed turn about the marquee.

"Wonderful day," John grinned, that slight huskiness to his tone sending an unaccustomed shiver darting down her spine.

"Wonderful," she assented, marvelling that dancing was, after all, a remembered rhythm the body still kept time to… even hers.

"Marvellous work, Mar. You and all the ladies."

"Thank you, John. Ella has been most kind with her baking, and the cider has been as clear and sweet and sparkling as I remember it."

He guffawed softly. "That cider was cloudy and bitter and you know it, that rotten stuff I used to make you with my Daddy's old press."

Marilla's thin lips gave a hint of a pleased smile.

"Well, John Blythe, perhaps I can look upon those old times more kindly, now that the future seems so happy."

John nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. "We can borrow on their happiness, can't we, Mar? Use it to bolster our own?"

Marilla's reply was quiet and determined. "Yes, I believe so. I believe many more things than I used to."

John gave her a bemused look. "Your girl could make me believe just about anything."

Marilla's answering sigh held a hint of sadness. "Gilbert's girl, now."

"And I'm grateful for it." John cleared his throat. "There was never anyone for him but her, Mar." #

The weighty implication hung heavy in the warm air. _Was there anyone for you but me?_

The dance – their dance – was coming to a close. In a moment Gilbert would reluctantly relinquish Anne to Mr Harrison, and take up his mother in his arms; John would move on to Emily Harrison, or perhaps even kindly coax young Dora, once she returned from where she had darted out, face flushed, presumably for a brief respite back up at the house. On her periphery Marilla saw Davy standing with Ralph Andrews, tugging uncomfortably at his collar, still traumatised by the sketchy dance lessons Rachel had insisted upon directing so that he would not disgrace himself or the entire household; the Wrights and the Blakes had merrily swapped with one another, to the everlasting amusement of their watching offspring.

"Thank you, for the hankerchief," John drew her back from her reverie. "It meant a lot that Anne's carried it today. I told her she could keep it. I hope you don't mind."

There were many things Marilla might have minded, once, and if Time could never completely heal a wound, it could certainly soften the scar.

"The stitching will probably unravel on first wash, you know."

John flashed an unashamed, undaunted grin. "But _our_ stitching won't, Mar. We're all tied together now, the whole lot of us."

Marilla was tempted to roll her eyes at his philosophising. John saw something in her expression that made him laugh again, rather delightedly.

"Still sentimental, John Blythe?" she flushed, and internally blamed the heat. "Better stick to your cider."

"I might have to, at that," he agreed good naturedly, and then risked a final tease, in the time-honoured way his son had inherited. "Or perhaps I'll branch out to red currant wine?"

* * *

Ralph was relieved to see Davy claimed by tradition, setting off with Miss Cuthbert, and would have enjoyed their awkward spectacle more but for his friend's sister dashing out of the marquee, though Jane gave him an encouraging smile before making her way across to sit with Diana Wright and the visiting young Reverend and his wife.

Ralph sighed, sipping his cider and trying to remember what he had written to Dora that morning, worrying that he may have overstepped the mark. The minutes passed until she had been away an age and there was now a break for refreshments and people gathered for the cutting of the cake. Pretty soon things would be winding up and the newlyweds farewelled. He liked Anne and Gilbert both and was happy for them, though with Anne gone from Green Gables the place would feel far less approachable, with those two stern old ladies still in residence. Suddenly he feared Charlottetown was a long way from Avonlea, both in distance and perspective; what was the letter of a boy who had hardly spoken to her, and shortly to be away two years, when Dora Keith would soon have potential suitors coming out of her ears?

Ralph brushed back the fair hair he had inherited as Prissy had, though his steady, quiet demeanour was more akin to Jane's. He was taller than Davy though not yet as broad, not having worked much of the farm, concentrating as he had this past year on his Queen's entrance. He felt suddenly an extremely callow youth compared to Davy's swagger and the debonair charm of that Paul Irving, who caused more than one young lady to turn her head in interest as he easily chatted to one and all about the tented reception area. Ralph Andrews by his own admission was not a head turner, but Dora was, and she re-emerged just as the fiddlers were to start up again with their eye-raising announcement of _Ladies Choice._

Just as well this was Anne's wedding, for that idea would never have flown at Jane's, but the surprise of the guests turned at once to a polite stampede as the women present looked about, assessing their options. Ralph had eyes for no one but Dora, however, and his gaze locked with hers as she re-emerged through the crowd. He was glad he had said she was beautiful; oh, how she was, enough to make his breath pained, but what he liked most was that she wore her looks so gently, almost dismissively, as if she forgot they were there.

"Well then, I guess I've done my duty," Davy crowed as he materialised at Ralph's side, flushed with his success, not having maimed Marilla and gaining a nod of approval from Mrs Rachel to boot. "What say we get some cake and then you can ask Dora to dance?"

"I am not asking Dora to dance," Ralph explained for the hundredth time. "And weren't you listening? It's Ladies Choice, this next one."

"Aw, hang! Did Anne put them up to that or something?"

Ralph felt he'd rather not answer, and at any rate, there was a certain blonde maiden in a peachy-pink dress making her tentative way towards them, stopping before them and ringing her hands, her hazel eyes blinking in time to her hesitant breaths.

"Jeez, Dora," Davy moaned ungraciously. "Sorry, but I can't dance with you now. I've just gotten through with Marilla. Maybe later, after I've had some – "

"I'm not asking _you_ ," Dora blurted.

"What?"

"I'm… asking Ralph. I'm asking Ralph to dance."

Davy was genuinely stumped. "No, Dora! That's not how it works! Wait awhile, won't you, and then _he_ can ask _you!_ "

"Actually…" Ralph tried his best to remain nonplussed, "that's exactly how _Ladies Choice_ works. Thank you, Miss Keith. I accept with pleasure."

Ralph did not linger to have Dora lose her nerve or even to observe Davy's comically aghast countenance. He accompanied Dora to the middle of the marquee, filling with the unlikeliest pairings imaginable; Minnie May had snagged Paul Irving; Mrs Lynde had cornered that poor minister with the unfortunate ears; Gilbert grinned as he allowed himself to be commandeered by that eccentric Mrs Lavender; and the bride herself was barrelling towards Davy with her characteristic determination. Ralph could not help his grin as a waltz began and he found himself guiding his partner composedly, if with regrettable lack of flair.

It didn't matter. It had _worked_. He was dancing with Dora Keith.

"Thanks… for asking me, Dora," he stumbled for want of a better opening. "I didn't know whether you would."

"I didn't know, either," she murmured softly, red faced and stunning.

"I…. appreciate it, all the same."

She nodded, sweeping a sideways glance towards her brother as he did appropriate penance by being corralled into accompanying Anne. Dora bit her lip against her smile as she turned back to Ralph.

"Just desserts for Davy, I think," he ventured cheekily.

"I think so!" she laughed quietly. Ralph's eyes flew wide.

"Was that an actual laugh, there? From _Dora Keith_?"

"You think I don't laugh?" she looked to him, puzzled rather than coquettish.

"I think… you are known for being more serious than you obviously are. I'm very pleased to be corrected."

Her lovely face held a measure of exasperation.

"Just because I'm not loud, doesn't mean I don't _feel_ things or… that I don't have anything to say."

"Of course not, Dora, ah, Miss Keith, that is…"

"Dora is fine, _Mr_ Andrews," she gave wry reply.

Ralph let out a breath. This wasn't exactly going to plan, though he hardly knew what his plan might have been, beyond getting to this point.

"I liked your letter," Dora offered after a moment, blushing again. "Thank you. It was lovely and… surprising."

Ralph felt his pulse thrum in his ears. "I'm glad," he gulped. "Very glad you liked it. That is, I'm pleased that you read it, and felt you could act on it."

"Did you mean what you said, in it? You weren't just being polite, or…?"

"I meant _every_ word," he determined, his answer full of feeling.

She reddened magnificently at this, and the sentiments of those hazily recalled sentences circled his frenzied brain. Did he dare say them in person? He opened his mouth ineffectually and shut it again. His warm grip tightened on hers, and he wondered if he had furthered his cause today or set it back forever.

" _Will_ you think of me, when you're at Queen's?" Dora asked suddenly, part question and part challenge.

"Every day," he breathed, too overwrought to be circumspect. "Might you… think of me?" he ventured audaciously, knowing at this point he had nothing to lose.

Dora's kind eyes searched out his, and a smile fluttered about her lips.

"Possibly," she hedged, though her smile widened to a tease.

"I can write more letters, too," he offered stupidly. "That is, if you'd like to receive them."

"You're asking if you can write me when you're in Charlottetown?"

"I guess… yes, I guess that I am."

He looked around, realising belatedly that the dance was finishing. That their time would be over. That their moment was nearly already a memory.

"I'd like that, Ralph…" her smile now was unrestrained, broken free, in every way an unexpected gift, as he had learned was she. Her eyes were very bright as they found his, her sweet voice giving his written words back to him. " _Perhaps more than I should."_

His grin in answer was as unstoppable as a runaway train, and if he looked a complete idiot he did not care. He was so happy he was almost tempted to buy Davy and Milty a new fish hook each anyway just for the sake of it. _Almost._

* * *

Gilbert reluctantly consulted his silver pocket watch, and then looked about the marquee with a sigh. The very last thing he wanted to do was to take his leave of their wonderful celebration, but they had a train to catch… and a new life to begin.

He wove through the tables, grown quieter after the merry mayhem of _Ladies Choice,_ finding Anne in laughing conversation with Jane, Diana and Phil, the latter ladies having formed something of an instant friendship in their two days together.

"Sweetheart…" he leant to whisper into Anne's ear. "It's time."

"Are you coming to spoil our party, Dr Blythe?" Phil grinned.

"I'm afraid so, Mrs Blake."

"I expect just as many letters from _you_ as I will from Anne," Phil continued severely.

"I will do my absolute best," he bowed at the four ladies solemnly, eyes twinkling as of old.

Fred materialised from where he had been playing outside with young Fred and Small Anne, carrying the latter as the former clung to his leg tiredly.

"I'll help Paul Irving and your Dad with the luggage, Gil," he offered, handing over his children to their mother.

"Thanks, Fred. There should be three trunks left, I think?" he sought Anne's nod of confirmation. "My one should already be at the station."

"Would you like some help in changing, Anne?" Diana asked pensively, to the encouraging nods of the other women.

Anne surveyed each lovely friend in turn. "Thank you, Di, but I'll manage. If I have anyone up in that beloved little room with me I might never come out again."

Gilbert reached for Anne's hand and helped her up, sharing a smile with the ladies even as he saw his bride's own smile falter. By the time they had crossed over and out of the marquee into the dazzling sun, and traversed the steps to Green Gables, they had run the gauntlet of their guests' knowing, sympathetic looks, and Anne was decidedly teary as they entered the hallowed house.

"Sweetheart…" Gilbert drew her to him.

"I'm alright, really, Gil," she protested gamely, waving a damp blue hankerchief about before dabbing her eyes. "I'll be fine in a moment."

Gilbert caught a flash of embroidery, and initials he couldn't quite fix on.

"That's pretty. I noticed it before. Is that the _something blue_ you carried today, Anne-girl?"

She gave a shuddering little laugh. "Something _blue, old, borrowed…_ you name it! But if your father gifted it to me is it _borrowed_ at all or have I just voided the old superstition?"

"This was _Dad's?_ " Gilbert's eyes widened with new curiosity, now reaching out long fingers to examine the initials properly and the fine, intricate embroidery. "Not to slight Ma, but this workmanship doesn't look _quite_ like hers."

"It's _not,_ " Anne looked up to him thoughtfully. "It's _Marilla's._ "

Gilbert stilled, and Anne watched his beloved face carefully recompose itself.

"Forget-me-nots," he smiled faintly. "It appears he… never did."

"Gilbert…" Anne lay a hand on his arm. "I don't think your mother knows about this. I think your father meant this as… well, a talisman. He gave it back to Marilla and Marilla gave it to me. As, perhaps, an acknowledgement of the two families always having been connected. As an indicator of – "

" _The_ _ties that bind_ ," Gilbert nodded slowly. "Marilla hinted at something like this to me last night, actually." He raised his eyes to hers, giving her the smile she loved. "I can't really fault him, Anne. I could never forget _you._ "

Anne reached up to caress his cheek. "I won't be long, beloved."

She had one foot on the first stair when he turned her gently, waylaying her.

"Oh no you don't, Anne Blythe!"

"Gilbert?"

"You're going upstairs to the room I've spent the last decade and a half imagining you in. Would you deny me the only opportunity I'll ever have of seeing it now?"

" _Gilbert!"_

"You saw _mine,"_ he pointed out patiently, "when I was recovering from typhoid."

"Well, yes, but I was hardly noting the furnishings!"

"And it's _not_ as if you need a chaperone…" he pressed his suit, his gaze warm.

Anne tried to look imperious and failed miserably, too enamoured by his mischievous schoolboy gleam and the thought that here was another threshold of many they would cross today.

"It seems I can't _deny_ you anything, anymore, Dr Blythe," she answered lightly, yet provocatively enough to heat his cheeks as they ascended the stairs together.

XXXXX

The little gable room, at the highest point of the house, was lonely and still, and almost overly warm as they stood in the doorway. Gilbert followed Anne inside, ducking his head to avoid the slanted roof, wondering eyes taking in the plain, serviceable furnishings remaining now that Anne's possessions were packed away, though there was the scent and the sense of her everywhere, from the needlepoint above her bed to the pretty dresser with the frills on the chair and the filmy _romantical_ curtains at the window.

His eyes drew back to the dazzling, emerald green skirt and jacket hanging up outside the closet, belatedly realising this would be what Anne would change into, morphing from bride to wife before him. He imagined running his fingers over the fine fabric in the hours to come, hands darting to places they had never before dared, until he closed his mind off to the fevered thoughts of the husband, feeling wrong to linger on them in this sacred shrine to girlhood.

Anne seemed curious as to his sudden silence, seeking to fill it.

"There have been so, so many happy days and nights here, Gilbert…" she ventured, pausing by the bed. "Except three, of course."

"Three _not_ happy occasions, love?" he sat himself before her carefully.

"Three nights," she paused, remembering. "The first was the very night I arrived from the asylum, when I was told I would be leaving again in the morning, after the mix up with me not being a boy."

Gilbert frowned slightly, not daring to make comment and slight the generous woman who had indeed changed her mind, regardless of Anne's unexpected gender.

"And then, of course…" Anne sighed, "there was the first awful night after Matthew died."

Gilbert reached for her hand, kissing the palm tenderly. "I so wanted to do something… _anything_ … during that time," he lamented. "I knew you didn't want me to – that you weren't _ready_ for me to – but I couldn't help feeling lousy and helpless all the same."

"You were right," Anne gave a soft smile, coming to stand before him and stroking his hair. "I wasn't ready for you, then."

"And… the third time?" Gilbert tried to keep track of this important conversation, though he wanted to lose himself in Anne's caress.

Anne's sigh was longer still, here, and her grey eyes turned grave. Her fine fingers traced his hairline and along to his temple, rubbing there as he had once rubbed at them himself, warding off a migraine and the aftereffects of the fever.

"The night I thought you were dying," she answered softly. "I placed a candle in the window, there, and kept vigil by it. I prayed until the words no longer made sense anymore – the only thing that mattered was that you would live. I couldn't bear the thought that _you could go away from this life thinking that I did not care._ * And that…" here she became low-voiced, and swept her gaze from his, holding herself very still, as if trying to hold this last revelation to her, "and that, I remember repeating _Dear Lord… I ask of nothing but that you save Gilbert, and if you cannot save him, that you take me alongside him. For I will not… cannot… remain on this earth without him."_ _**_

They had talked about this night before, of course, in the hours after their engagement, and occasionally referenced it in the years since. But being together, here, the site of her revelatory moment and her lowest point, sharpened the poignancy of both past and present. It was so silent in that little room that the happy chatter of their wedding revellers drifted up to them, the only sound apart from their shared breaths. Gilbert, wordless as she, grasped her waist and buried his face in the lace at her bodice, as if trying to expunge the pain of that long-ago night with his grip on her and her name on his lips as his lips sought across and up and finally found hers.

He pulled her down to sit in his lap, blanketing her face with frenzied kisses, his tears wet on her own cheeks.

"Anne…" he rasped, agonised. "Oh, Anne…"

"It's alright, my daring…" she crooned to him. "The prayers worked."

He gave a choked laugh. "And so did mine."

"And what, husband, did you pray for, pray tell?" she smiled sweetly, nestled against his chest, her hand calming his curls gone awry.

"To kiss you on our wedding day." He made good on the vow, with interest.

" _But that a joy past joy calls out on me…"_ *** Anne murmured against his lips.

"I believe that's _my_ line," Gilbert grinned as he nuzzled her earlobe, and then drew back with a deep sigh.

"At any rate… _joy,"_ Anne determined, remembering it was her sentiment, too, the day of their engagement.

"Joy," Gilbert affirmed with shining eyes. "But I'm afraid I have another watch word for us, my love," he shrugged his broad shoulders helplessly. " _Train."_

"Yes, train!" Anne yelped. "Oh, Gil!" Anne leapt from her impromptu perch, beginning to move about the room in agitation.

"Here, sweetheart. _Calm."_

She looked to him in frustration, gesturing vaguely to her back. _"Buttons."_

"My prayers are being answered at every turn today," he smirked, to her wry laughter.

Gilbert was not smirking , however, as his long, brown fingers brushed aside her ivory veil before tracing a path down territory forbidden for so long, releasing each fiddly, delicate clasp along her spine to reveal other layers of corset and chemise, throat tightening to think of the pale, perfect flesh beneath all. He contemplated her for a moment, taking in a breath he seemed to hold for minutes on end, and when she turned to him, he wondered who was the more undone.

If he attempted a single touch further they would absolutely miss their train and scandalise the entire neighbourhood, but as Anne stood before him, holding her layers to her, her eyes huge on his, he knew taking his final leave of her would be the most difficult of all.

"I'll be downstairs, darling," he offered throatily, giving a crooked smile before backing out the door.

* * *

 _But they must go, the time draws on,  
And those white-favour'd horses wait;  
They rise, but linger; it is late;  
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. _**** _  
_

Gilbert waited for Anne at the bottom of the staircase for one last time; smile wide enough and joyous enough to banish any lingering sadness over this inevitable goodbye, his hand enveloping hers with his warmth and transferring his strength with a reassuring squeeze. Upstairs her wedding gown, shoes and veil were laid out on her girlhood bed for Marilla to later lovingly linger over; to tenderly pack away and bring along with her at Christmas, though Anne's pearls remained with her, ever lustrous against her brilliant emerald ensemble; a going away outfit to instil envy in many a heart observing how radiant Anne looked in it, and how this was in turn reflected back in Gilbert's gaze towards her.

Anne paused to look around her, but she had said many a farewell to this beloved home, and although this was a final one she had never before had her own home to travel onwards to, and this did much to temper any stray tears. With a loving look to her husband they launched themselves though the door and into the fray. As _Anne and Gilbert left to catch the Carmody train_ all their guests had lined the route from the verandah steps right up to a grinning Paul Irving _as driver_ clasping the reins of the buggy, patiently awaiting them.

There were shouts and kisses, hugs and hasty farewells _. The twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. Harrison bore a valiant part._ Gilbert lost track of whose hand he shook and Anne whose cheek she kissed, though there were some indelible impressions; Phil's kiss; Jo's grin; Rachel's tears; Dora's smile; Davy's embrace; Diana's whispered wish, promised a month ago, of _love and luck;_ and Fred's firm clasp. And finally, John Blythe stood between the two women who had featured in his life, embracing the woman who had transformed his son's.

"All happiness to you, our wonderful new Mrs Blythe," John offered huskily, with warm, resolute smile, giving her a tight, heartfelt embrace he then immediately transferred to Gilbert.

"Goodbye, our lovely Anne," Ella Blythe offered, with a kiss on each cheek made even more tender by her tears. "Look after one another."

Gilbert still had hold of his father as his mother joined them, but Anne by then had turned her eyes to blue ones, though she could hardly see them through her veil of tears.

"Farewell, my darling daughter," Marilla offered, which broke the recipient of that new title – from the woman who had never liked them herself - completely.

Anne's arms came around Marilla and held fast, sobbing so much so that Gilbert after a time had to reluctantly extract her. Dora and Davy approached either side of them, with Rachel behind, and the three other remaining occupants of Green Gables were each rewarded with a tearful hug too, until it became absolutely necessary to help Anne up to the buggy and for Gilbert to follow her without further delay, and with encouraging thanks to their coachman indicate they should set off.

 _Marilla_ trotted forward and _stood at the gate,_ watching until _the carriage_ journeyed _out of sight down the long lane with its banks of goldenrod._ That wonderful vibrant hair was vivid against the almost cloudless sky. _Anne turned at its end to wave her last good-bye,_ blue hankerchief bright against the sunshine _._ And then, _she was gone –_ her girl was gone - _Green Gables was her home no more._ Instead of Anne was now an ache that refused to budge from her chest. Had Matthew felt this same pained pang before leaving them? She wished in that moment to have the time back with her brother, for he alone could truly share in the wrench of this parting. _Marilla's face looked very grey and old as she turned to the house which Anne had filled for fourteen years, and even in her absence, with light and life._

A strange, numb silence descended over Green Gables in the minutes after the newlyweds' departure. Rachel Lynde, sniffing luxuriously, reached for her old friend's hand, holding onto Marilla tightly. John took a weeping Ella in his arms, noting over her head how Davy, the boy who had howled at Anne's departure for Redmond many moons ago, took off for the barn at suspiciously quick pace. Ralph watched helplessly as an ashen Dora was gently comforted by his sister Jane, perhaps here, as so often, in proxy for her brother. Fred and Diana were locked tightly together, sharing a mutual wordless sorrow. Phil and Jo grasped a son apiece, smiling at one another rather tremulously. Mr Harrison patted Fred Jr absently on the head, as his wife scooped up his adventurous younger sister before offering her to the outstretched arms of both jostling grandmothers. Reverend and Mrs Allan kindly took charge of a lost-looking Mrs Lavender and Charlotta between them.

The Fletchers, ever faithful, took both a plate and Mary Maria, setting off for their own home and organising to later drop her at Blythe farm, thereby gifting the Blythes a few more precious moments of peace. They heralded the general exodus of the guests, from the senior Wrights and the Harrisons and, ever regretfully, the Blakes, with promises from the latter to write to those at Lone Willow Farm, grateful to have made some new friends even in farewelling Anne and Gilbert. The Barrys were quick to hustle off a protesting Minnie May well before Paul Irving had any hope of returning from seeing his passengers off at Carmody. Mrs Harmon spent so long a time with Ella Blythe, attempting to console through the wisdom gained from the marriages of three of four children that she completely missed a further quiet conversation her youngest had with Dora, who had been bequeathed Anne's bouquet and shyly passed on a rose from the gathered blooms to her new correspondent, who would secretly safeguard it all the way to Charlottetown.

After assisting a sullen Davy with the last of the visiting buggies, Fred thankfully strode back up to the house, where he, _Diana and her small fry, the Echo Lodge people and the Allans, stayed to help the two old ladies over the loneliness of the first evening, and they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper time, sitting long around the table and chatting over all the details of the day._ When Fred reported that Davy, remarkably, had no interest in any of the leftovers on offer, John Blythe's eyes met Marilla's worried ones, and he volunteered to investigate this unprecedented occurrence.

"So, here we are," John greeted gruffly, finding the flushed and forlorn boy sitting on a hay bale in the barn, plucking at it absently. "You're missing out on an embarrassment of riches up at the house, Davy lad."

"Not hungry, Sir," he mumbled.

"Always hard to eat when your stomach is right churned up," John nodded placidly, seating himself nearby. "I don't feel like very much myself."

Davy Keith gave him a sideways look. " _Your_ stomach's churned up?"

"Well…" John leaned forward, looking at his steepled hands, "today I farewelled my boy. Even if it's a happy time, I don't feel much like celebrating."

Davy's pursed lips and general countenance betrayed his silent agreement.

"Weren't you used to Gilbert going, though? He was always back n' forth from somewhere."

"That he was," John nodded, chuckling softly. "He prob'ly spent more time out of home than in it, come to that. Doesn't stop the feeling that he's finally gone, though. I suspect," he gently prodded, "it's the same with Anne?"

Davy screwed up his face at this, looking for all the world like that young scamp brimming with mischief from the past rather than the young man of the present, already settling into his adult responsibilities with aplomb.

"It wasn't so bad, except I got used to having Anne about this last month, and I didn't think I'd be too bothered 'bout it… Except now she's gone, and Ralph is goin' too, and soon there'll be nobody left but me."

John's throat tightened in sympathy. "The way I figure it," he mused, "is that we are the ones holding everything together. The farms, the land, the families… takes a lot of strength to do that. But I'd rather face that than always starting again, in a new place, livin out of a trunk and not know if I was Arthur or Martha most of the time…"

This elicited a reluctant smile, and Davy shuffled on his perch uncomfortably, contemplating the conversation.

"I always liked to think…" John's voice here had lowered to a gravelly rasp, trying to process his own pain, "that Gil wasn't always wanting to leave us, but instead always finding a reason to return. Anne will too, and Ralph Andrews, and all the others. And they'll come back and see changes here, as well. Cause nothing stays exactly the same, not for anyone. That's just life, lad." John hoped to convince himself as much as the boy next to him. "Guess the only thing that stayed the same, for Gilbert and me, were our chess games. I always had the board ready, same as usual, each time."

Davy snorted. "Sorry, Mr Blythe, but you'll be waiting a while for Gilbert to come back and play chess with you now."

"That I will," he gave a sad nod. "That's why I gave him the set to take with him, so that _I'd_ have the reason to go to _him_."

Davy was the one to nod, now, understanding this logic. "I guess…" he sighed, "I could always go see Anne n' Gilbert, and up to Charlottetown to visit Ralph."

"Of course you could," John encouraged, "although from what I saw today, you might have to take Dora with you, at that!" he gave a delighted Blythe smirk.

Davy groaned to himself, but it was fairly good natured. He had been outmanoeuvred by the pair of them today; a surprise in both cases. Maybe things really didn't stay the same. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing.

"Mind you, I don't want to get too rusty with my chess moves…" John conjectured, only now realising in offering comfort he was perhaps also seeking it.

Davy waited several beats, before taking the bait.

"Matthew – you know, Marilla's brother – well, he had a set, up at the house somewhere. I saw it once, but nobody knew how to play to teach me."

John allowed a full-bodied grin. "Who'd you think taught _him?"_

"You were friends with Matthew Cuthbert?" Davy's hazel eyes were wide.

"For years. And Marilla too, you know." It had been, after all, in visiting the one that he had realised his developing feelings for the other. And then the reminder of his own words… he had always, then, had a reason to come back.

As, perhaps, now.

Davy was appropriately agog, processing this marvellous new information, and sufficiently diverted from his misery.

"I could teach you a bit, even now," John stood, at the ready, "though it's a game best learned on a full stomach."

He raised a knowing brow, and Davy rolled his eyes, allowing himself to be led back out, happy to be talked around in this, too.

"I hope they've saved us something," he grumbled. "Fred can eat like a horse."

John cheerfully ignored this clear instance of the pot calling the kettle black. "I don't think anyone yet has gone hungry at Green Gables," he replied dryly.

"Haven't you got that aunt of yours to get back to, Mr Blythe?" Davy asked the sudden, dread question, as the handsome homestead, so festive today, came into view.

John offered a perfect grimace, but then gave a cheeky look of complete unrepentance.

"Better make it a thorough first game then, lad," he patted Davy on the back companionably.

* * *

Paul Irving made short work of the journey to Carmody, for which Gilbert was eternally grateful, and kept up a steady stream of observations about life in Boston – and enough amusing anecdotes about life with Mrs Lavender – to assist his former teacher in drying her tears, and Anne had regained her composure as they arrived at the station with just enough time to check in their remaining trunks and find their carriage.

"Thank you, Paul," Gilbert shook the tall, handsome lad's hand with enthusiasm. "It was kind of you to see us here, and magnificent of you to get us here on time!"

"A pleasure, Dr Blythe," young Irving grinned in return, turning his attention to Anne, who was generous with both her kiss and her entreaties to be kept up-to-date regarding his writing.

"Naturally, _teacher._ Your lovely wedding has inspired me, even as we speak."

"I'm so very glad of that," Anne beamed up at him.

"I'm rather inspired to get on that train behind us, actually," Gilbert gently teased.

Anne accepted her cue, somehow separated from her former charge enough to be ushered into the carriage and settled by the window. Gilbert would have sorely loved a private compartment for them, but had lamented his funds had not stretched to the extra expense, and Anne had repeatedly assured him she would rather them enjoy the journey together in the style they had always travelled, with her head drifting to the strong shoulder that had always offered her comfort, even in the days when she had so fiercely denied it.

They both waved to Paul, their last link with home, until he and the platform were but specks against the landscape, before turning back to each other.

"Just us, now, Anne-girl," Gilbert breathed, taking her hand, before whispering in her ear, "and a carriage-full of people, unfortunately."

Anne gave him that starry-eyed look he loved. "Would you let _that_ stop you, Dr Blythe?" she smiled serenely, challenging him with her tone. "Being that we _are_ a married couple, now."

Gilbert didn't pause any longer to consider all the waiting and the dreaming and the planning to get to this day, this point, this exchange.

"No, indeed, Mrs Blythe," he grinned, kissing her passionately, completely uncaring, now and forevermore, as to who saw them.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

#Hello Sullivan series! Gilbert's beautiful line... given to John!

* _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Ch 4), quoted throughout unless otherwise indicated

**requoting from this story, Ch 1 _Drowning_

***William Shakespeare _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act 3 Sc 3)

****Tennyson _In Memoriam A.H.H._


	19. Chapter 19 Homecoming

**Author's Note**

Firstly, apologies for being away so long, and belated but sincere wishes for Christmas or whichever holiday you celebrate.

Thank you for the support of everyone on this site this year, whether through reviews, messages, favourites or follows, for this and my other stories, and for the generosity of spirit shown in sticking with me through my erratic and haphazard posting non-schedule. Likewise, thank you for your patience if awaiting responses for reviews or reviews themselves. To say my real life leaves little time for writing is a slight understatement, and I know I am not alone in this. However, if this year has proven anything, it's that there can be true wonders found within this community; in the shared love of LMM's titular characters and the many adaptations and incarnations of them; in the fabulous world-class writing; in the fellowship of a truly international array of readers and writers; and in the friendships that grow from all these facets, which I cherish.

Thank you to all my especial comrades-in-arms, and you will know who you are; from those (literally!) down the road and here in Australia to those whose hands reach across the waters; the world is wide but you have helped me make some memories (how did _Mamma Mia 2_ get in there?!)

Apologies in advance for this chapter. It has driven me demented. There is precious little kissing let alone anything else; just a long journey, a trout supper and visitors who stay half the night. In keeping faith with canon (and in leading in to my sequel fic to come) I couldn't just cheerfully write _several long and frustrating hours omitted,_ but please know how I was tempted to, and that I won't shortchange you regarding upcoming events!

Love and Happy New Year

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

 _ **Homecoming**_

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

The very air felt different, here; the tang of salt seemed to carry on the breeze as she and _Gilbert were alighting from the train at Glen St Mary._ Anne Blythe had been true to form, falling asleep against the bulwark of her husband's shoulder, and when he woke her with a kiss greeting perfect nose and those fetching seven freckles she started awake thinking she had dreamed their glorious day, only to realise it was no figment of her imagination. She was here – _they_ were _here –_ husband and wife together, after a long, long journey not merely of miles.

They had departed in bright sunshine but arrived at the close of day, and Anne was grateful for her new, smart jacket and skirt to combat the cooler climate and her sudden rush of self-consciousness, as the porter fussed with their trunks with a knowing smile and a tall, rangy scamp of a lad emerged to beckon them. _Dr David Blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them,_ * and this is to where they were now directed, both carriage and massive horse seemingly equal to the task of transporting two humans and four trunks.

"Thank you," Anne approached the boy with a gentle smile. "It must have been a wait for you. What is your name?"

"Proctor, Ma'am," was all he would own to with a shy mumble, though his eyes widened as Gilbert dropped a coin into his dirty palm, and he happily _slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving them to the delight of driving alone to their new home through the radiant evening._

Gilbert handed her up with a proud flourish, and they were away.

* * *

 _Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when they had driven over the hill behind the village. Her new home could not yet be seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbor like a great, shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its entrance between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing village, nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked like a great opal in the haze._

She clutched Gilbert's arm tightly, overcome by the sight, emitting a series of wordless gasps that had him smiling back at her fondly. _The sky over them was like a jewelled cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with the subtleties of a sea evening. A few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet, the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled grey ribbon of a passing steamer's smoke._

 _"Oh, beautiful, beautiful," murmured Anne,_ eyes shining in rapture. "Just indescribably beautiful…"

Gilbert rather thought the scenery still paled when measured against the beauty of his wife, and was pleased to tell her so, making her blush rosily and becomingly in the twilight.

 _"I shall love Four Winds, Gilbert._ I feel I will, right down to my soul. _Where is our house?"_ the excitement – and curiosity – burst forth from her.

 _"We can't see it yet-the belt of birch running up from that little cove hides it. It's about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there's another mile between it and the light-house. We won't have many neighbors, Anne. There's only one house near us and I don't know who lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I'm away?"_ Gilbert offered leadingly, though now that he had voiced the thought he knew it would quietly plague him.

 _"Not with that light and that loveliness for company…"_ she sighed, smiling dreamily.

She and Gilbert made slow, steady progress past a large, imposingly immaculate green house and grounds, continuing _on the moist, red road that wound along the harbor shore. But just before they came to the belt of birch which hid their home, Anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow- white geese along the crest of a velvety green hill on the right. Great, scattered firs grew along it. Between their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow harvest fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue sea. The girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue print. She walked with a certain springiness of step and erectness of bearing. She and her geese came out of the gate at the foot of the hill as Anne and Gilbert passed. She stood with her hand on the fastening of the gate, and looked steadily at them, with an expression that hardly attained to interest, but did not descend to curiosity. It seemed to Anne, for a fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it. But it was the girl's beauty which made Anne give a little gasp-a beauty so marked that it must have attracted attention anywhere. She was hatless, but heavy braids of burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat, were twisted about her head like a coronet; her eyes were blue and star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was magnificent; and her lips were as crimson as the bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at her belt._

 _"Gilbert, who is the girl we have just passed?" asked Anne, in a low voice._

 _"I didn't notice any girl," said Gilbert, who,_ charmingly, _had eyes only for his bride._

 _"She was standing by that gate-no, don't look back,"_ Anne murmured warningly, tucking her arm into her husband's more firmly. _"She is still watching us. I never saw such a beautiful face."_

Gilbert had long thought the most beautiful face he had encountered was the one turned up to him, and hence felt leave to answer a mite dismissively.

 _"I don't remember seeing any very handsome girls while I was here. There are some pretty girls up at the Glen, but I hardly think they could be called beautiful."_

 _"This girl is,"_ Anne pressed. " _You can't have seen her, or you would remember her. Nobody could forget her. I never saw such a face except in pictures. And her hair! It made me think of Browning's `cord of gold' and `gorgeous snake'!"_

Gilbert smiled lovingly at the allusion, remembering the poetry he himself had promised Anne this very evening.

 _"Probably she's some visitor in Four Winds…"_ he answered distractedly, " _likely someone from that big summer hotel over the harbor."_

 _"She wore a white apron and she was driving geese,"_ Anne responded with a quizzical brow.

 _"She might do that for amusement,"_ he answered unconvincingly. _"Look, Anne-there's our house."_

 _Anne looked and forgot for a time the girl with the splendid, resentful eyes. The first glimpse of her new home was a delight to eye and spirit-it looked so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbor shore. The rows of tall Lombardy poplars down its lane stood out in stately, purple silhouette against the sky. Behind it, sheltering its garden from the too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, in which the winds might make all kinds of weird and haunting music. Like all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses, secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and patiently seeking. Outwardly, dark green arms keep them inviolate from curious or indifferent eyes._

 _The night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as Anne and Gilbert drove up the poplar lane._ Anne's breath almost stopped as she strained to drink it all in. Unexpectedly, _the door of the little house opened, and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert_ seemed to give a soft sigh, noticing this too, as he _lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs,_ and _up the trim, red path to the sandstone step._

Anne grasped him tightly.

"A welcoming committee?" she gave a wry smile.

"I'm afraid so, my love," it pained him to say it, more than she would ever know. He had harboured the faint hope all the way from the station that Great Uncle Dave might have left his greeting for a week or so, or arranged to pick up his buggy another time, in similar way to which it had appeared. The thought seemed churlish, of course, but his own disappointment was not easily masked, to think they had been waiting so long to be alone and now waited longer still.

Anne could have laughed at the aggrieved expression on his dear, lean face.

"Well, let's make them welcome, darling, as they have obviously intended for us."

"Welcome…" Gilbert sighed again, rather extravagantly, and then gave her a soft, loving look.

 _"Welcome home," he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the threshold of their house of dreams._

* * *

 _"Old Doctor Dave" and "Mrs. Doctor Dave" had_ evidently _come down to the little house to greet the bride and groom. Doctor Dave was a big, jolly, white-whiskered old fellow,_ who immediately enveloped the pair in an enthusiastic bear hug, _and Mrs. Doctor was a trim, rosy-cheeked, silver-haired little lady who took Anne at once to her heart, literally and figuratively._

 _"I'm so glad to see you, dear,"_ Mrs Doctor Dave kissed each in turn, her greeting for both though her eyes turned to Anne. "Our love and congratulations on your wedding day. I'm sure it was quite marvellous, and I'm sure we'll hear all about it in good time. It really is wonderful to have another Doctor Blythe here in the Glen. Dave's proud as punch, you know," she smiled serenely, though her face quickly took on a motherly frown. "Here I am prattling, when _you must be real tired. We've got a bite of supper ready, and Captain Jim brought up some trout for you. Captain Jim-where are you?"_ she looked about with exasperation. " _Oh, he's slipped out to see to the horse, I suppose. Come upstairs and take your things off."_

Anne's grey gaze met Gilbert's, her expression equal parts grateful for such kind ministrations and flustered to be separated from the man who had been by her side the entire day. Gilbert gave a comically helpless shrug of his shoulders as he was taken aside by his great uncle, whilst _Anne looked about her with bright, appreciative eyes as she followed Mrs. Doctor Dave upstairs. She liked the appearance of her new home very much;_ it was sweet and snug, yet solid and reassuring, and strong enough to be able to withstand all manner of weather. Anne trailed her pale fingers along the polished wooden banister and smiled, feeling already as if the house had _the atmosphere of Green Gables and the flavour of her old traditions._

Uncle Dave and this unknown Captain Jim made short work unloading the trunks, sending them up with Gilbert who was directed by his aunt and a bemused Anne as to where exactly they ought to be placed, mock-grumbling with a glint to his eye that he should at least be able to peek in Anne's for his pains before being shooed out again by both women.

"Well Anne, love, I'll leave you to get things settled to your satisfaction, whilst I see to the men and to supper," Mrs Doctor Dave offered, patting her hand reassuringly before retreating back down the stairs.

Anne stared around her, taking a long, quiet breath and casting an observant eye about her bedroom – t _heir_ bedroom – and, with the blushing dawning understanding, also their bridal chamber.

 _"I think I would have found Miss Elizabeth Russell a `kindred spirit,'" she murmured when she was alone in her room. There were two windows in it; the dormer one looked out on the lower harbor and the sand-bar and the Four Winds light,_ and she crossed over to it immediately.

 _"A magic casement opening on the foam_

 _Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn,"_ **

 _quoted Anne softly. The gable window gave a view of a little harvest-hued valley through which a brook ran. Half a mile up the brook was the only house in sight-an old, rambling, grey one surrounded by huge willows through which its windows peered, like shy, seeking eyes, into the dusk. Anne wondered who lived there; they would be her nearest neighbours and she hoped they would be nice. She suddenly found herself thinking of the beautiful girl with the white geese._

 _"Gilbert thought she didn't belong here," mused Anne, "but I feel sure she does. There was something about her that made her part of the sea and the sky and the harbor. Four Winds is in her blood."_

 _Would Four Winds come to be in_ _hers?_ was of course the question, though Anne felt a strong kinship with her surrounds already. It was wonderful to think here she and Gilbert would be discovering the landscape and the community together, learning of both as an answer to a puzzle slowly revealed, or perhaps as a gift unwrapped, peeling away another layer little by little. She had felt shafted as a girl from pillar to post, and then thrust upon the unsuspecting Avonlea populace, and alternatively excited and homesick when away at Queen's. Redmond and Kingsport had been welcoming, and Summerside had – eventually – learned to be so, but here she would be Mrs Blythe – the new Mrs Doctor Blythe – intrinsically involved in the lives of these families on the coast, and the mere thought instilled a tremor of both thrill and trepidation.

And of course – here another rather more laboured breath – she and Gilbert would come to discover one another, too… Anne caught her own reddening reflection in the glass of the handsome dressing table, patting at her hair as she took off her hat and set it on the chair in the corner, brushing down the sides of her jacket and thinking back to Gilbert's hands at the buttons of her bridal gown earlier that afternoon. Had he thought, then, of another bedroom in which she would stand together with him, contemplating the removal of layers and barriers both?

Something fluttered in her stomach at that; fear and fascination, like twinned torments, and she wondered how on earth either of them would survive the evening, trout supper notwithstanding.

She busied herself with their trunks, then; she and Gilbert's sat alongside the far wall, with a third and fourth deposited out in the hall. Anne bypassed her own and her husband's, instead darting out to lift the lid of the homewares trunk and withdrawing one of two generous quilts, shaking out the apple-leaf design and arranging it over fresh sheets hemmed by loving, hopeful hands. Gilbert had purchased four new pillows and they were encased in their slips and plumped to perfection, deposited against the headboard and then arranged and rearranged until Anne looked at them tormentedly, wondering why on earth the placement of pillows even mattered.

 _Tomorrow morning, she would awaken to Gilbert's head resting on the pillow beside her._

Her mouth went dry as she contemplated that thought and others besides, and she completed her toilette quickly, freshening herself after their journey and in an agony over whether or not to remove her jacket – she was here in her own home, but amongst visitors; not guest but not yet hostess.

 _And bride but not yet wife._

With an exasperated huff at herself, and trying to summon any semblance of her old bravado, she stepped firmly out the door.

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

 _When Anne went downstairs Gilbert was standing before the fireplace talking to a stranger. Both turned as Anne entered._

 _"Anne,_ love, _this is Captain Boyd. Captain Boyd, my wife."_

 _It was the first time Gilbert had said "my wife" to anybody but Anne,_ except during his wedding speech, _and he narrowly escaped bursting with the pride of it._ The lady now wearing that mantle came down flushed and all eyes, the firelight sparking her hair as she crossed the floor towards them. _The old captain held out a sinewy hand to Anne; they smiled at each other and were friends from that moment. Kindred spirit flashed recognition to kindred spirit._

Gilbert had to bite his lip against his smile at the old sea farer's manifold compliments towards Anne, delivered with _such a gracious, gentle deference of tone and look_ that she was soon grinning and blushing in equal measure and even his own great aunt tittered delightedly whenever any verbal bouquet happened to be offered to her.

 _They gathered gaily around the supper table,_ and Gilbert was grateful for the sight of Anne across from him, bequeathing a shining smile as he had leapt to seat her, brown hand lingering on her slight shoulder for the lightest yet surest of touches. _The hearth fire banished the chill of the September evening, but the window of the dining room was open and sea breezes entered at their own sweet will._ The breeze stirred wisps of his wife's hair which in turn stirred his own pulse, and he had to concentrate mightily on the conversation, though it veered like a drunken sailor from something the Captain had fed some stray to his Great Uncle Dave's _forty years' feud with the over-harbor people._ But _the view,_ when his eyes diverted from Anne's, _was magnificent, taking in the harbor and the sweep of low, purple hills beyond._ Gilbert was thrilled that _this_ was the house he had brought her to, this hospitable home of warmth and welcome. _The table was heaped with Mrs. Doctor's delicacies but the piece de resistance was undoubtedly the big platter of sea trout,_ and he was hungrier than he had realised, not even sure what he had even eaten at his own wedding, and though it was but a few hours ago already it, and Avonlea, seemed as if part of another lifetime.

Now, of course, the immediacy of the darkening evening was what called to him, observing Anne file away the knowledge of a _Mrs Dick Moore,_ resident of _the house among the willows up the brook,_ and laughing himself at the idea of _inveterate man-hater Miss Cornelia Bryant,_ wondering if it would be an advantage or not to have such a fearsome-sounding personage at their doorstep. Though, of course, these names belonged to people who were not mere neighbours but possible patients, and he paused at that, wondering if he would ever feel the ease in discussing them that Uncle Dave evidently felt.

 _"Who was the first bride who came to this house, Captain Jim?" Anne asked, as they sat around the fireplace after supper._

 _"Was she a part of the story I've heard was connected with this house?" asked Gilbert,_ knowing how the knowledge would please her _. "Somebody told me you could tell it, Captain Jim."_

 _"Well, yes, I know it. I reckon I'm the only person living in Four Winds now that can remember the schoolmaster's bride as she was when she come to the Island. She's been dead this thirty year, but she was one of them women you never forget."_

Anne needed little more encouragement to settle in for the story, leaning forward like a schoolgirl in the chair opposite him, as his aunt and uncle took the sofa and the good captain settled himself nearest the flames, making his tumultuous tale spark with further drama and mystery.

 _"Tell us the story," pleaded Anne. "I want to find out all about the women who have lived in this house before me."_

The Captain's tale was certainly equal to anything Gilbert had heard or that Anne herself may have created, even back in her Story Club days, and she made an incredible picture, sitting enraptured, framed by the light of the flames and her own incandescence, drinking in the romance and the peril of _the schoolmaster's bride._ He answered to Captain Jim about trances – despite his uncle's scepticism – and though the older man dismissed John Selwyn's notions, nay visions, as _dreams,_ Gilbert couldn't help but hark back to the vivid memory of his own fevered imaginings, when gripped by typhoid, and convinced he heard and saw Anne. Man of Science he might be now, let alone Doctor of Medicine, but he would always keep a belief in his back pocket in _things unseen_ and not easily explained.

" _He turned his head and looked at me…."_ the Captain was coming to the end of his tale. " _I've never forgot his face- never will forget it till I ships for my last voyage._

 _"`All is well, lad,' he says. `I've seen the Royal William coming around East Point. She will be here by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.'_

 _"Do you think he did see it?" demanded Captain Jim abruptly._

 _"God knows," said Gilbert softly,_ thinking of his own bride and his own hearth-fire in the moment, and his journey to win them both _. "Great love and great pain might compass we know not what marvels."_

Anne met his eyes with her own brimful ones, giving him a loving look that stopped his heart, no doubt thinking, as he was, of the love and pain and grief that had been part of their own story.

 _"I am sure he did see it," said Anne earnestly;_ a support to guest and message to husband both _._

Gilbert smiled in return, barely suppressing the desire to cross the room and sweep her into his arms. It would have to come later, of course, once their audience had departed. He shifted in his seat like a fidgety schoolboy.

 _"It's a dear story,"_ sighed _Anne,_ learning of Persis Leigh's longed-for and slightly miraculous arrival, and _feeling that for once she had got enough romance to satisfy her. "How long did they live here?"_

 _"Fifteen years… Fifteen happy years! They had a sort of talent for happiness, them two. Some folks are like that, if you've noticed. They COULDN'T be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. They quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited."_

Gilbert caught Anne's eye again at this and gave a knowing smirk.

" _Then they moved to Charlottetown, and Ned Russell bought this house and brought his bride here. They were a gay young pair, as I remember them. Miss Elizabeth Russell was Alec's sister. She came to live with them a year or so later, and she was a creature of mirth, too. The walls of this house must be sorter soaked with laughing and good times. You're the third bride I've seen come here, Mistress Blythe-and the handsomest."_

 _Captain Jim contrived to give his sunflower compliment the delicacy of a violet, and Anne wore it proudly. She was looking her best that night, with the bridal rose on her cheeks and the love-light in her eyes; even gruff old Doctor Dave gave her an approving glance, and told his wife, as they drove home together, that that red-headed wife of the boy's was something of a beauty._

 _"I must be getting back to the light," announced Captain Jim,_ with a satisfied air _. "I've enj'yed this evening something tremenjus."_

Gilbert was instantly on his feet and most solicitous in ensuring there was no danger that aunt, uncle or former sea captain could inadvertently leave any belongings behind, and whilst Anne shared several fond parting words with Jim Boyd and learned of the sentiment regarding _the race that knows Joseph,_ he was hard pressed not to hustle them all out the door.

 _The moon had just risen when Anne and Gilbert_ paused atthreshold _with their guests. Four Winds Harbor was beginning to be a thing of dream and glamour and enchantment-a spellbound haven where no tempest might ever ravin. The Lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver._

 _"Always liked Lombardies," said Captain Jim, waving a long arm at them. "They're the trees of princesses. They're out of fashion now. Folks complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. So they do-so they do, if you don't risk your neck every spring climbing up a light ladder to trim them out. I always did it for Miss Elizabeth, so her Lombardies never got out-at-elbows. She was especially fond of them. She liked their dignity and stand-offishness. They don't hobnob with every Tom, Dick and Harry. If it's maples for company, Mistress Blythe, it's Lombardies for society."_

Gilbert grinned at Anne's approving look regarding all this talk of trees.

 _"What a beautiful night," said Mrs. Doctor Dave,_ with a gentle, leading smile to them both _as she climbed into the Doctor's buggy_ and they all exchanged their farewells _._

Having admired the night himself, the Captain took off after them, confident and sure-footed as he headed back to the bright beacon flashing in the darkness.

* * *

 _The laughter of the goodnights died away,_ and with the silence there stole up like a breeze from the harbour a new aching awareness of the man beside her, stirring Anne's nerve endings as he chuckled in chagrin to himself and gifted her his roguish smile.

"I know we will thrill at their company, Anne-girl, but I really thought tonight they'd _never_ leave!" Gilbert rolled his eyes for good measure, eliciting a nervous flicker of a laugh from her, like a flame he was trying patiently to coax to life.

He offered his broad, brown, beautiful hand to her and _Anne and Gilbert walked… around their garden,_ she trying desperately to take in his humorous little asides and the surroundings that blurred into the soft, dreamy darkness. _The brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches. The poppies along its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. Flowers that had been planted by the hands of the schoolmaster's bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays._ Tongue-tied and desperate for some sort of occupation, _Anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray._

 _"I love to smell flowers in the dark," she said,_ inhaling their scent wonderingly. _"You get hold of their soul then. Oh, Gilbert, this little house is all I've dreamed it. And I'm so glad that we are not the first who have kept bridal tryst here!"_

Gilbert grinned at her use of _tryst,_ the disapproving visage of Rachel Lynde looming large, to think they might be engaged in something scandalous and illicit within distance of either of her gifted quilts.

But _no._ He was a married man, here with his bride… in their house. With their own hearth awaiting them and a new mattress on the bed upstairs and the yearning of years informing every quivering breath he took in her radiant presence.

"Shall we, Mrs Blythe?" he invited, low-voiced now and fighting a tremor of something more elemental than excitement.

Anne's smile was a brave thing that did not falter, though her hand pulsed in his, and her wide grey eyes seemed to drink him as he walked back with her to the doorway.

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*All quotations from _Anne's House of Dreams_ (Chapters 5, 6 and 7) excepting the first line which is the end of Ch 4, or unless otherwise indicated. I tried very hard to hop, skip and jump over as much of the talking talking talking as I could! However, LMM's descriptions of Anne and Gilbert's journey to Four Winds and her depictions here and evocative sense of place are so beautiful I couldn't bear to be without them.

**John Keats _Ode to a Nightingale,_ which LMM has Anne quote in Ch 6, and was a through-line regarding Keats I wanted to keep throughout these wedding and honeymoon chapters.


	20. Chapter 20 Cherishing

**Author's Note**

And HERE we ARE…

No more guests. No more relatives. And no more trout.

It has been a rather long journey to this point, hasn't it? Thank you one and all for making it with me. This story has generally been a slow burn and to be honest that rings true for my version of Anne and Gilbert's fabled wedding night as well. This chapter is a love letter to them and to all of you for whom their romance and their connection is key. I desperately wanted to give a strong indicator of their intimacy without tipping the balance into M-land, here, and so I hope for those who remain T readers, that this is just enough and not too much…

However, I have continued this interlude over in the M section for those who are not quite ready to call it a night. A new sister story to this is entitled _**O! Let me have thee whole – all, all – be mine!**_ No nice, pithy story titles for me, thank you very much – give me the tongue-twisting quotation any time… The very first chapter is up now (the first of three or four) and these will cover the remainder of the wedding night and a little glimpse into their honeymoon. After this the action will return to this main story for a final one-two chapters with a possible epilogue. Please don't despair as I won't remain in M-land forever, and I am committed to completing this story! (and, obviously, those other two!)

Thank you to all readers and especially to reviewers, and to those who have done double duty here and over on AO3 where this story is still in its beginning stages. I first posted on this site in September 2017 (for a story that is STILL going!) and fanfic is in my blood now. That is very much due to you all… If you are out there and considering putting fingers to keyboard, determined that THIS will finally be the year, please don't hesitate, and don't doubt, just DO! I am delighted to hold your hand if you need any help or reassurance. I am only a PM away.

This chapter is dedicated to two unfailingly supportive people; _**oz diva,**_ who will be relieved beyond measure that I am finally up to the interesting part; and to _**Alinyaalethia,**_ who might well win the vote for the writer I want to be when I grow up x

With love

MrsVonTrapp x

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

 _ **Cherishing**_

* * *

 _ **Gilbert**_

* * *

"Here, now, my darling…" he swooped on her suddenly, lifting her up and into his arms, nestled against his chest and taking two long strides over the threshold. "We didn't quite get to this part earlier."

If her giggle was ordinarily music then her surprised laughter now was a symphony, and the release of his own guffaw mingled with their new delight in finally seeing their home in their own time and on their own terms. He quick-stepped through to the kitchen, then swung back drunkenly to head in the other direction, reintroducing the dining room and the sweeping views out to the harbour, passing by a closed door that he would save for later on his way back to the living room with its welcoming fireplace – finally staggering to the nearest settee, hoping to deposit her upon it with due ceremony, but instead collapsing with Anne in a tangle of skirts and shrieks.

"Oh, Gil!" Anne laughed breathlessly, pinned underneath him, and their positions were such an audacious echo of every snatched and stolen moment of the last three years… and such an unconscious aperitif of what was to come, that her cheeks quickly flamed to the knowledge. Gilbert's chuckles had rumbled in his chest but soon died a death, his own faint color proving the thought was likewise neither lost on him.

"Sorry, my love…" he murmured, regretfully extracting himself and helping to pull her back up to sitting, and himself to some semblance of calm. The delicate hooks holding her emerald jacket in place had sacrificed themselves in the melee, revealing a whisper of chiffon beneath, and he helped to divest her of this most unnecessary layer with hands that moved with more surety than he felt. Gilbert was distracted beyond belief now by the rise and fall of her chest, and the tumble of hair that couldn't fight gravity for very much longer. Nor could his fingers help their passage, teasing tendril and curl, till he found a series of pins and with amazed, adoring movements, slowly removed each, till a thick, rich auburn braid fell in a glorious rush, as mesmerising as ever Browning could have written it, but no poet could quite account for the feeling of his heart in his mouth to see it, to run his fingers through it, to unravel it into soft waves that flowed across the pale sand of her blouse.

Nor could he prevent himself pressing his nose above the fluttering pulse at her ear, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of lilies overlayed by the golden sun of their noontime vows, mixed with the salt of the sea of their romantic passage to the creamy clam-shell cottage that was now their home.

" _Oh, Gil…"_ Anne shivered, releasing a swirling breath that teased his face.

Their kiss was unbearably slow and sensuous, fired by the warmth of the fireplace and the awareness of their new freedom. Gilbert had kissed Anne a thousand times and never failed to marvel, and hoped there would never come a day when he stopped doing so.

He gulped at her gaze, now, all greening eyes and soft, wondering smile. The tension in him began to coil, exquisite in its pleasure-pain. He knew the feeling well; it had been a constant companion these past years and he had become expert in manoeuvring around it, tying himself to a guide rope that he only ever allowed himself to follow so far… but what if the rope snapped, now? What if he strangled himself with it? If the dreaming-desire of years was quenched too quickly, for either of them, he would never forgive himself… and yet, to deny the pull of that tide… the fatal lure of those dark waters…

Anne reached out pale fingers, plucking his apple sprig from his buttonhole, twirling it thoughtfully before inhaling and placing it behind her on the low side table.

"I think, Gilbert Blythe, you are the most handsome man I have ever known in my life."

He gave a low, pleased chuckle, his hazel eyes lighting. "A good suit will do a man wonders."

She tilted her head to the side, giving a coy shake and sweeping her eyes over him adoringly. "A suit still needs the shoulders to fill it."

His grin grew by degrees. "Will we test their adequacy then, Anne-girl?"

Anne cocked a brow, but he had already scrambled backwards, risen, and leant over to sweep her back up anew. There was no laughter now, just his firm tread and their quick breaths and the intermittent squeak of the stairs. Outside their House of Dreams the wind picked up, billowing the gauzy curtains inside their bedroom, the bed adorned with an apple-leaf quilt that still smelt of Green Gables and made Anne's throat tighten.

She remained cradled against Gilbert's chest in the doorway as he surveyed the room, remembering belatedly that he had yet to see it dressed and ready for them, turning to follow his gaze as he set her down gently on the floor with a careful smile and a look she tried to fathom.

"I didn't realise quite how lovely it would all seem," he explained throatily, "until I saw you in it."

Anne bit her lip and took his hand to lead him over to the dormer window, with its view of the harbour; a vastness of rolling dark broken by the sand bar and the beam of Captain Boyd's beloved light. Gilbert's arms snaked around her and she leaned back into the comfort of his embrace, sighing with contentment and hearing his soft laugh in her ear.

"Something amuses you, Dr Blythe?" she half turned towards him.

"I just remembered I wished to tell you something," she could hear the smile in his tone. "The sight of our bed just reminded me. I regretfully awoke with cold feet this morning."

Gilbert anticipated her aghast expression, quick to share the joke with her, till her shell-pink lips quirked and she murmured about his general incorrigibility.

"Will you reform me, then, oh darling wife?" he challenged with a gleam in his eye and an arch to his brow.

Anne reached the pads of her fingers up to that brow, tracing wonderingly.

"I wouldn't succeed, and I wouldn't even want to make the attempt."

He kissed the fingers that had just caressed him, and felt the little shiver run through her, echoed in himself.

"Are you cold? Shall I shut the window?"

"No…" she gave him a look that was all eyes. "I love the faint sound of the sea. And I have a feeling you'll warm me, regardless."

If that was an invitation he was not about to refuse it, and smiled as he threaded his own fingers in her hair, using it to tug her gently, further into the circle of his arms. His kiss to her began at her temple and journeyed to her ear lobe, tickling her pulse and quickening her breath. His body sang in tune to hers, moulding and straining, grasping her about the waist and moving his lips to her mouth, finding hers soft and pliant and more than ready for his, and he sucked in her bottom lip and his own breath as he sought a grip on his fast-fading control.

"Darling…" his smooth baritone was little more than a rasp at that moment. "You must tell me, love, whether you are too tired. Whether you would like us to… wait. To rest, and to see how things feel in the morning. You won't offend or disappoint me. It has been a terribly long day and I…"

His great speech tapered off at her blushing look to him, all smoky eyes and curving lips, before she bent to press a tender kiss into his palm.

"I love and adore you beyond measure, Gilbert."

"And I love and… and adore _you,_ Anne…" he echoed, dark brows knotted, stuttering on his uncertainty. He never tired of such sentiments, but here, now, he still needed an answer, an assurance one way or another. He was prepared, even so, to delay – to wait seemed always to be his wont – since the very first moment he had ever laid eyes on her.

Anne searched his face but found only incomprehension.

"Gil… let us be husband and wife to one another… or at least learn to be…" she reddened further as she made a vow of these words, too. _"O! let me have thee whole, - all – all be mine!"_ *

Gilbert thought that some phrases would be found etched on his heart… the first time she forgave him; her first confession that she loved him; her acceptance of his proposal; her vows to him today. But _these_ words – poetry to him in every possible sense – might supersede all. He wished he had the presence of mind to remember any answering lines for her, now, but instead had to settle for his kiss to her, pouring all his hope and exquisite happiness into the one moment to which all their others had led.

* * *

 _ **Anne**_

* * *

Gilbert's lips had found her throat and grazed a fevered path up and down, to the point where only his embrace held her upright. And possibly her corset, which was doing its best to prevent her from sinking into the anchor of his arms. She closed her eyes tightly against the dizzying breathlessness which she sorely wished was due to her new husband's attentions alone, but when she murmured his name it was in increasing discomfort and not amorous invitation.

"Darling?" his eyes sought hers.

"I… I… just a little out of… breath."

He released her reluctantly, surveying her with increasing understanding, leading her gently to the bed where she sat taking in uneven snatches of air.

"I was hoping to be able to make you swoon, Anne-girl, but this is not quite what I had in mind," came his smooth, joking reply, only betrayed by the heightened flush of color against his cheeks. He crouched down before her. "Corsets really are dratted devices."

"And here I was thinking you only had experience of frilly aprons, Gilbert Blythe."

He grinned widely at that, always buoyed by the easy affectionate banter of their shared history, before assisting her to stand.

"I seem to remember… I had started something earlier," he raised a questioning brow, broad hand at her spine, and received her blushing nod.

"Please," she gave embarrassed affirmation. "It's my own fault, really. I was laced quite tightly for my wedding dress, and I should have loosened my stays a little when I changed."

His look to her was of an aching fondness and he pressed his lips to her temple, before taking a breath himself.

"I'm sorry, Anne… I didn't realise… you should have said…"

"I'm rather relieved you don't _quite_ know your way around a lady's undergarments at this point, Gilbert," she said with an arch smile, her teasing tone hearkening to innumerable times past, when _her_ layers and _his_ decency were the only things that had kept their runaway desires in check.

"Well, I'm a quick learner," he defended spiritedly.

Anne felt her cheeks flame fiercely at this, remembering Diana's words of wisdom regarding _Avonlea boys,_ and Gilbert caught her change in composure, perhaps quelling his own attempts at jocularity.

"Cuffs, Mrs Blythe?" the query fought for steadiness.

Her shy nod had him directing long, nimble fingers to the delicate covered buttons at either wrist, travelling in a matter of moments up to the frill at her throat. His breath was quick and quiet against her skin, and he concentrated with a surgeon's precision as bow, buttons, collar, cuffs, all came under his touch … and then easing the fine material off her shoulders to reveal her in corset and chemise and pearls, her green skirt reflecting the large eyes that stared as he stared, both caught in the flare of their shared, heated gaze.

Gilbert's look to her was fathomless; he attempted to wrap his mouth around the sound of his awe, and first produced but a wordless sigh.

"I imagined you…" he breathed, reaching out to tentatively touch the creamy chemise by her clavicle, hardly different in hue from the sheen of her skin. "All the moments… all the _months_ … when I wasn't with you. And I… obviously… my imagination was not equal to the task. I could never properly imagine your beauty, my darling."

The flush at his appraisal swept her from cheek to toe, and she battled to process the desire behind those darkening eyes, different and deeper than she had ever experienced. Her own uncertainty made her bolder than she felt, though she issued her challenge as a shaky quiver.

"I think those Blythe shoulders could do with a little more space themselves."

"I should lose my jacket, too? What a brilliant idea," he nodded, chuckling quietly.

Gilbert's dark jacket was divested with the same fluid motion with which he had moved around a football field or danced a waltz or, indeed, carried his wife upstairs. Anne had never ceased to marvel at the ease and confidence with which he comported himself, and watched avidly as he crossed the room to lay his jacket and her blouse neatly across the chair, by her hat, running his fingers over the brim thoughtfully.

He turned and gave her a lopsided smile.

"Now that I've begun…" he ventured, and slipped off polished shoes, socks and was about to set to work on his vest before her protest stopped him.

"Oh, Gil, wait…"

"Oh, sorry, love, I'm forgetting how we started this…" he frowned distractedly, walking back slowly towards her. "Your corset, and that little matter of not being able to breathe…"

"Oh, well, yes…" she stumbled. "But I… I just wanted to have _my_ turn, too."

She reached out her hand, which he clasped, swallowing audibly as she let go to walk her fingers up his taut chest, which heaved silently under the pads of her fingers. Anne concentrated on his own buttons, but not before she ran her hands over his smart patterned waistcoat, knowing how he watched her as she stroked and caressed the material, reaching up to ease it off him and then dropping it with abandon on the floor to shift attention to his suspenders. He gave a little strangled sound as she slid her fingers up and down them, before they, too, were shrugged off said shoulders, and then inevitably came his tie, green in her honour as she always knew it would be, unknotted with a dexterity that made him blow out a long breath and mutter with chagrin.

"You're better at this than I am."

She gave a flustered little laugh, eyes shining as she looked coyly up to him, biting her lip as he took her left hand and kissed it in courtly fashion, before introducing his lips to each knuckle, pausing at her ring finger with its circlet of pearls and new gleaming gold band, before brushing those lips across the beating pulse at her wrist. His mouth travelled upwards as her fingers had done, along pale skin made paler still against his deeper color, to the crease inside her elbow where his stubble tickled her enticingly, upwards to her shoulder, where he kissed the stray freckles there, and then leant to bury his face in her collarbone, inhaling deeply as she was, clutching her with a firmness that bordered on desperation.

"Wake me if I'm dreaming, Anne," he murmured into her throat. "Or better still, don't. Because none of this feels quite real."

Her heart bled for the boy he had been, ignored and shamed by her, and the young man having to dance attendance on her, and the loyal, dutiful comrade who had subverted all his own desires regarding her till such time as they came flooding out, drowning the both of them in the wake of his first proposal. She had said to Diana that she felt the weight of Gilbert having loved her for so long; the responsibility of it; through her friend had argued that it wasn't her duty to make anything up to him. Certainly the intervening years of their engagement had righted many past wrongs. Even so… _to love and to cherish. To honour and keep him._ And to _comfort_ him,too…

"Does _this_ feel real, Gilbert Blythe?" she announced suddenly, fingers finding his tantalising dark curls, hugging him still closer to her.

"Yes…" he breathed.

"And does _this_ feel real?" she tugged his head up, delivering a fierce greeting to his ever-kissable lips.

"Yes…" he nearly choked on his reply, brows flying to his hairline and bright hazel eyes widening to attention.

"And does _this_ feel real…?" she directed his hands behind her, his beautiful, skilful doctor's hands, tugging at long laces together until the constraining, cumbersome corset – the chief barrier separating them all these years – loosened. Anne transferred his grip to her bodice, directing him to the fastenings he opened with a hushed reverence, until the garment fell away, like an oyster revealing its pearl.

" _Yes,"_ Gilbert determined with a dawning smile of wonder, pressing her close to him, _all_ of her close to him, for the very first time. "This is most definitely real."

* * *

 **Chapter Notes**

*John Keats _To Fanny,_ one of very many poems he wrote in dedication to (and occasional frustration with!) his great love, muse and mostly-secret fiancee Fanny Brawne.

The film _Bright Star_ (2009) is a very lovely rendering of this romance, also dealing with Keats' financial woes and the ill health (tuberculosis) that plagued his family and ended his own life in Italy at the terribly young age of 25. _**Tinalouise88**_ may be interested to know that Fanny had a strong interest in fashion and was something of a cutting-edge dressmaker, which the film depicts.


End file.
